


Mockingbird

by Namesonboats (Viken2592)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Abduction, Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assault, Canonical Bird Symbolism, Canonical Implied Incest, Canonical swearing, Consent, Emhyr Deserves A Slap, Emhyr needs a hug, Eventual Romance, F/M, False Cirilla Needs A Hug, Horses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Major character death happens in the epilogue, Mature Content Between Teenager And Adult, Mother-Daughter Relationship, POV Alternating, POV Third Person Limited, Plot Jumps In Time In First Chapter, Present Tense, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-09-06 06:02:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16826620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viken2592/pseuds/Namesonboats
Summary: An exploration of false Cirilla’s backstory, her kidnapping from Brugge, and the events of her relationship to Stella Congreve and Emhyr. The fic ends with a short epilogue of my take on hers and Emhyr’s 20+ years of marriage before his death in the late 13th century. The real Cirilla has either chosen to become a witcheress or to leave for other worlds; i.e, this fic is based on the books and contradicts games canon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve wanted to write a fic about false Cirilla since I read the witcher books about a year ago. I find her and Emhyr’s relationship to be elegantly and subtly portrayed, why it is open for interpretation. However, I was disgusted with Emhyr’s plans for real Cirilla and found false Cirilla to be a rather bland character with little to no agency. Not to mention their age difference... But as I recently reread Lady of the Lake, I found something intriguing behind the surface of false Cirilla’s passive act, enough to wish to explore her. Why did she agree to act as the Princess of Cintra - to save her life, or something more? How did her and Stella Congreve’s relationship unfold? And what was it about Emhyr that made her wish to spend more time with him?
> 
> The fic contains scenes and quotes taken from the Time Of Contempt and The Lady Of The Lake by Sapkowski. I made a [mood board](https://namesonboats.tumblr.com/image/180583237375) for this fic where the pictures of false Cirilla and Emhyr are from the Gwent game.
> 
> A thousand thank you’s to the amazing [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean) for patiently and thoroughly helping me achieve my vision for this fic <3
> 
> Thank you for reading. If you happen to enjoy this fic, I’d love your feedback!

_We don’t know much about love. Love is like a pear: it’s sweet and it has a distinct shape. Try to define the shape of a pear._

_Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry_

_1263, Cintra outskirts_

The day the girl dies, she completes her morning toilette and dons her dress, never suspecting the world is on fire. Absentmindedly, she clasps her necklace, a thin golden chain, around her neck. The light outside the windows promises a beautiful day; the clouds that dot the blue of the sky are tinged with orange, and the warmth of the sun is enough for the girl to reject her knitted stockings.

Fingering a rupture in the collar of her dress, she contemplates her need for a new kirtle, and lifts her hands to pin a strand of her hair into her plain coif. Back when she still had a handmaiden, she wore her hair in eloquent styles. These days, her appearance holds little importance; her family is never invited to court and she’s unlikely to attend any balls…

A violent thump followed by the crisp sound of broken glass causes her jump. She spins and races to the window that has cracked in a pattern like a spider’s web. A small, black figure lays on her window still. Hands trembling, she opens the clasps and reaches out.

It’s a bird. It lies still, wings folded against black feathers and its red chin tucked against a snowy breast. She picks the animal up. Its tiny heart ticks inside the warm, feather-covered body. She holds it in her cupped hands with eyes wide, an acrid taste of bile rising in her throat.

The girl snaps her head up at the sound of feet running down the stairs outside her room. A shrill wail echoes from the courtyard. The hair on her arms rises as the ground begins to shiver from a distant rumble of hooves. In front of a dark cloud, formed by a fire consuming the nearby village, a black wall of soldiers approaches fast. The thunderous batter against the ground augments until they arrive, winged helmets gleaming, their black tabards embossed by the symbol of the sun. Horses snort and whinny. The morning air is cut by shings of swords drawn from scabbards.

The bird tucked against her chest, the girl breaks free from her frozen state, and runs.

_1257, The Sedna trench_

The man about to reclaim the name Emhyr var Emreis grasps the slim, satin-clad wrists of his wife. She spits and snarls at him like a snake.

“You’ve lied to us, this whole time!” Pavetta shrieks, face wet with rain and tresses of ashen hair clinging to her cheeks, “I know about your atrocious plan! She’s your _daughter_!”

Inhaling through his nose, Emhyr wills the flame of rage in him to be tampered, lest he does something he’ll regret…

“You do not understand, Pavetta.” The words escape him through gritted teeth.

She never will understand, this girl he’s never been able to love, and to whom he’s grown ever distant in the past four years, until the mere sight of her causes a sinking feeling in his gut. Her frequent, hysterical fits play part in deepening of the gulf between them; a gulf he’s done nothing to bridge but which nonetheless echoes jarringly in his heart.

Cirilla isn’t with them. Pavetta has managed to sneak her out of his grasp, and all his plans are thwarted. He cannot fail, and now _everything_ is at risk, because of her…

They stumble from the inclination of the ship, battered against crashing waves. He swears and tightens his grip to prevent them both from falling.

“You monster!”

She tugs free from his grasp and slaps him. Her hand leaves a burning mark on his face.

For the first time in years, Emhyr snaps. All his fear, rage and shame - shame over his inability to decide what to do with her; shame over a thousand unfulfilled scenarios of getting rid of her - explodes in a torrent of red-hot blood bursting through his veins. With a roar, Emhyr lifts his wife over his head, she shrieks -

_By the Great Sun, what am I doing?_

A violent chill rush through him and causes his insides to crawl up his throat. His arms sag when a wave hit the stern of the ship. He loses balance and stumble; the motion jerks her body over the gunnel.

With such fervour his back nearly snaps, he lunges forwards and grabs her arms in a fit of remorse powerful enough to compete with the tempest that roars around them. He squints against the whiffs of salt that spray his face. Faintly aware their ship is nearing the meeting point - the maelstrom conjured by the mage - he grits his teeth and tightens his grip on her.

Back muscles aching, Emhyr tugs with all his might, but the waters have rendered Pavetta’s skin too slippery. The last thing he sees, reflected in her wide, green eyes before a violent wave crashes against the hull and jerks her from his grasp, is the outline of a beast.

“No.”

Emhyr scurries along the gunnel looking for any sign of her, when the ship is pulled into the maelstrom with a loud gurgle and he is sent reeling towards the stern. He hits his head against he hardened wood and the world goes black.

_1257-1263, Cintra city, Cintra outskirts_

The maple trees outside of the girl's aunt’s home are shedding their hand-shaped leaves, tumbling to form a yellow mat under her feet. She tramples them, resisting the impulse to put one of their wing-like seeds on her nose, afraid her brother will scold her for being a child.

When will their mother let them back into her house? Her spell has gone on for long this time... Their relative’s poor attempts at feigning she and her brother are welcome as long as they like is growing more tiresome by the day.

“You’ll never guess what I’ve found!”

Her brother appears from behind and startles her. Surprised he cares for her opinion on whatever has piqued his interest - it is rare that he acknowledges her in more than disinterested grunts whenever she approaches him - she lowers her gaze to his hands.

A dead snake wobbles limply in his grip, not an adder, but the one she can’t remember the name of, with yellow dots by its head.

“Arnand, let go!” she squeaks, shuddering in disgust.

The gray in his eyes glitter with mischief.

“I’m going to put it in Babette’s dress.”

She slaps a gloved hand over her mouth to muffle another squeak. Their tutor, Babette from Touissant, invokes nothing but pity with her shallow eyes and her trembling smile. It might be the only prank her brother plays that amuses the girl.

“Have you heard?” Arnand places the snake inside the pocket of his woollen jacket, its black tail escaping its confinement.

“Heard what?”

“The royal couple are dead. Drowned, on their way from Skellige.” He shares the news in a disinterested tone, as if nothing could interest him less. Perhaps, nothing does.

The girl’s stomach lurch.

“The Princess?” she whispers.

“Nah, she wasn’t with them.” Arnand shrugs and jogs back to the house, the snake’s tail bouncing against his leg.

Tears amass in the girl’s eyes. She follows her brother’s shape until he disappears into the house and directs her gaze to the hill that forms a barrier against the outline of the city. She rounds the building and climbs the moss-covered slope, dotted with majestic maple trees. As she reaches the ridge of the hill, she squints against the sun to make out the ragged line of the sea behind the thatched roofs that stretch to the coastline and the harbor.

A shiver runs through her body. Those waves that carry ships also swallow them. How many bodies lay in the ocean, cold, alone?

Turning her back to the sea, she imagines steady mountains and robust, cool cliffs. She has few words for her emotions, but she has music. As soon as their mother lets them back to her house, she will compose a tune on their fortepiano, in an attempt to describe the ocean and give contours to her fear.

She has her mother’s name. Her mother, whose pearly laugh is only heard in the presence of her lovers. Her mother, who leave whiffs of rose-scented perfume in the air as she moves.

 _“My little mistake,”_ she calls the girl and caresses her face with hands soft like silk.

Other times, she smells of the port she’s downed, her soft hands clenches the delicate fabric of her violet taffeta dress, the crooning replaced by a hiss that that rasps the heart of the child:

_“I never wanted you!”_

In their sitting room, the girl’s mother writes a letter at her desk, while her brother plays with their dachshund. The girl - equally blonde as her mother, but with her father’s large, green eyes - sits by the fortepiano, her feet not quite reaching the pedals from the velvet cushioned stool.

The autumn rain spills from the clouds in light, drenching veils. Occasional brightly-colored leaves caress the glass panes of the house and the wind teases the flames in the open fire to dance in bursts of sparks.

The girl taps her index finger on a black note. The somber hum of the tone vibrates in tune with her heart. A sudden ray of light shines through the window through the patches of grey skies and warms her hand. She raises her finger to the ivory white of another key, anticipating the lighter note, when their housekeeper steps into the parlour with a letter in her hand. She purses her lips as the girl’s mother stands up, rips the letter open with a frown, and peruses it, hands shaking. The sudden pallor of her face matches the white of the clavichord keys.

There won’t be any more visits by her latest lover, the girl thinks. Waves of shame crashes through her, her palms turn sweaty.

Adjusting her meticulously coiled hair, her mother walks up to the cabinet in the corner of the room, opens it, and pours a glass of port which she downs in one take. As she pours herself another glass, the girl’s brother rushes forward and tries to pry the wine from his mother’s hand. She tears away from his grasp and swing her arm at him in a powerful slap.

The girl’s stomach sinks to the floor. Her small hands slide to her lap. He brother doesn’t cry. He strides out of the sitting room in deliberate, hard steps, cheek ablaze from anger and from the impact of their mother’s palm.

Cornelia’s eyes are like a calm lake. Her hands resemble paper, speckled with dark spots and intersected by bulging arteries. She is by far the oldest governess the girl has had, but won’t be her last.

“Like rivers on a map.”

Cornelia smiles as her fingertip traces the largest vein on the back of her hand. The smooth of her nail gleams in the light of a lit candle. 

“This is the Yaruga.”

The girl follows the trail of her finger with large eyes. 

“Where is Cintra?”

“Here.” Cornelia pauses on her wrist. The girl reaches out to touch the spot; Cornelia seizes her hand. 

“Let me read your hand. Really, child, you mustn’t bite your cuticles like this, it’s unbecoming for a lady…”

She slides her index finger along the lines of her pupil’s palm with a hum. Shadows dance on Cornelia’s face from the flickering tallow candles on the side table. The nervous knot in the girl’s insides loosens up at the sight.

“Ah, it’s clear.” Cornelia’s brown eyes glitter. “You will marry a dark, handsome man. He will give you your heart’s desire.” 

“He will give me a horse?”

Cornelia laughs, the white of her teeth glistening.

“Oh, you are so young! But why not? Now, we must practise your Nilfgaardian. No pouting. On your feet, to your desk!”

“Come here, child!” 

Her mother’s voice raises in a shrill tone, a sign she’s had at least two, perhaps more, glasses of wine. She’s wearing her blonde hair like a crown on her head and that silky, pink dress that makes her look like a noble piglet. 

The girl bits the inside of her cheek at the thought.

A few heads turn as she enters the room. The air is thick with chatter, perfume and the scent of tobacco. Scattered laughs erupt among the crowd; her mother’s soirees have always been popular. A fresh moist have begun to creep up the windows. Northsporn, their butler, opens one before he serves a woman in a green dress another glass of Castel Ravello.

One foot in front of the other. Another, one more step. Only in the presence of her mother does she forget how to walk. A fragment of black dust sails above the small flame of a nearby candle; she observes it to avoid the inquisitive glances of their guests.

“Isn’t she lovely!” Her mother casts a grin around that attracts nods and hums from her peers. She holds her hands out to her daughter and grasps her shoulders, pats the silky ribbon at the base of her neck. 

“Show these fine people how well you play, child! I’ve told them how skilled you are, come now..”

The girl’s skin is too tight for her own body. She suppresses a cringe from the scrutiny of her mother’s entourage. She wishes to lean into her mother’s arms and to be led up to her room, away from these people, this noise, but sits by the fortepiano.

The girl’s normally deft fingers are stiff on the keys of the instrument. She plays a popular tune, her gaze steady on her hands, her vision bleary. People whisper around her; she catches fragments of their words.

“Did you hear? The Lioness has broken off the engagement between the Princess and the Prince of Verden.”

“Well, that should come as no surprise.”

“I thought Calanthe was adamant the Lion Cub takes the throne...”

“Her? The prize of some mutant? I’ll eat my mittens when that day comes.”

The girl’s fingers slip, the wrong note scratches a thorny line in the air. Heart racing, she catches her mother’s wretched eye cast. Before anyone notices the coldness of her gaze, the woman softens and ushers her daughter out of the room. 

“That was lovely, darling!” Her voice croons softly, but when they reach the door, she grabs the girl’s arm in a painful clasp.

“Why must you embarrass me - go,” she pushes her daughter out of the room. 

The girl wishes she were an ashen speck of dust, sailing in the air; she deserves to turn into dust for her failure to play the good daughter, for denying her mother the act of perfection.

The girl lays awake for hours until she falls asleep, pillow wet from her tears. 

Cornelia struggles to hide her excitement as she sits beside the girl on the stool, facing the keys of the pianoforte. 

“I trust you have rehearsed well! Your very first composition… this is the true test of your talent.”

The girl swallows and places her hands on the pianoforte. She hesitates for a heartbeat before she taps the keys and plays for her tutor, the only one she ever loved, her vision of the sea.

Cornelia’s smile abates as the notes reverberate in the room. A small frown appears on her face.

“Dear child,”, she hesitates, “I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s so…”

The girl waits, muscles frozen and hands still on the keys of the fortepiano.

“It’s very you.”

_Bizarre, unbearable…_

“Beautiful, but different. Unusual.”

Cornelia places a hand on the girl’s shoulder and turns to face her.

“Like a pearl among grains of sand.” She caresses the girl’s cheek with her fingers.

The girl’s hands tremble, as do her voice.

“Please Cornelia, you mustn’t say such things!”

“Why in the world not, my dear?”

She runs to hide her tears.

Her tutor is dismissed the next week. The young girl’s eyes remain dry as Cornelia’s carriage leaves the courtyard of their house, the wheels tracing a lined pattern into the gravel with an increasingly distant crunch.

Isabel is the girl’s last tutor, with eyes thorny like a bramble bush and hands like iron clasps. Of all their tutors, Isabel is their mother’s favourite, so when the young woman gets in trouble with the cook’s nephew, the girl’s mother is furious for being forced to let Isabel go. Before she is sent away, Isabel grabs the girl, alone in her room.

“You think you are noble people,” she hisses, her face crimson, “but everyone knows of your shame. Your father was a half-breed and your mother’s no better than a whore!”

_1263, Cintra outskirts_

The girl rushes into the garret, unable to still the frantic palpitations of her heart or calm her shallow breathing. She tugs an polished oak shelf, empty of items, in the west side of the room. It opens in a wide semi-circle to reveal a hole in the wooden structure that stabilizes the heavy plaster behind it, a construction error only she and Arnand know of. The small bird still in one hand, she pulls the shelf towards her as far as she can without clamping her fingers, and leans back into the dusty hole, large enough to fit her if she squats.

Her blood soar in her ears. She worries they’ll notice the slight inclination of the shelf if they step into the room, and find her.

They - the black soldiers. _Why are they here?_

Faint cries reverberate from under the floor planks. With the little bird in her lap, she clamps her hands over her ears and closes her eyes to shield her from the gruesome screams and crashes that reach her from below.

_This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening…_

Emotion and reason brawl in her mind as she sit, cornered against the plaster. Some part of her wants to give in to the tears that burn behind her lids and weep. Another part, geared for survival, refuses her tears; an adrenaline-filled iron will hushes her breath and forces her to sit motionless. The most prevalent feeling is one of incredulity. Is it not a joke? Would she not, if she got up on her feet and went downstairs, be greeted by Arnand and mother who would laugh and tell her it is all horseplay; a bad parody?

She sits for many hours, drifting in and out of sleep, until the light from the dirty garret window vanishes and leaves the room in darkness.

It’s the thirst, and the pressing need to relieve herself, that drives her to finally leave her confinement. No more cries or compact steps of armoured feet trudge the lower floors. Everything is eerily still.

She nudges the shelf and cringes at the creaking sound. Heart in her throat, she waits to discern if the noise attracts any attention. When nothing happens, she wriggles out of the hole in the wall, the little bird still in her hand, and escapes out to the corridor that leads to the stairs.

After having done her business in the privy, she treads the floor of the rooms with hands outstretched to guide her in the silent darkness. Her eyes adjust and registers faint rays of moonlight that outline the furniture along the walls. The stillness augments the noise she makes; the rustle of her linen kirtle, her distinct breaths, the manifest sound of her steps, despite wearing her softest slippers. Her thirst and growling stomach drive her to the kitchen.

The fire in the hearth has long gone out; reduced to faint glow of embers. A copper basin is thrown upside-down beside the workbench, shards of porcelain and earthenware lay scattered around the floor. Jugs and plates are thrown around the place, sacks and chests in disarray.

She gulps several mouthfuls of water from a pail next to the bench. Underneath a table, she finds a half of loaf of cornbread, stale and burned at the end, but she devours it as if it were pastry.

A glint of light draws her attention to the farthest part of the room. The skin on her neck prickling, she slowly lifts her gaze towards the open door of the larder, lit up by a faint light spilled from the staircase. A gleam of wet substance on the floor reflects the outline of a small hand, pale and motionless.

She runs, out of the kitchen and along the hallway, out through the door that leads to the backyard, runs and runs until she gets a stitch in her side. Her tears draw lines in the dust on her cheeks.

Sobbing and panting, she settles on the grassy floor beneath an oak to seek shelter under its boughs and comfort from its trunk. Legs curled up against her chest, she leans her forehead to her knees.

The bird she has forgotten startles her with a ruffle of its feathers. She inhales and unfurls her hands that clenches around its tiny body. The bird exclaims a tiny tweet. It’s black eyes gazes at her with a blink; it stirs in an attempt to open its wings. She observes it, momentarily losing sight of the grisly scene in the larder.

“Are you alright?” She whispers, fascinated to see the little creature previously thought dead spring to life.

The bird tilts its head.

“Do you have a mother?” the girl sobs, “A father?” Her cheeks redden from the absurdity of speaking to an animal as if it were a person, but the words escape her mouth unbidden. If this little bird can flee, maybe everything will be alright…

“Fly, little one. Fly away to the forest.”

The swallow flies. It dashes through the treetops, towards the stars, as if chased by the wind.

The girl loses sight of the bird. Warm tears flood her eyes.

The rustling sound of feet on fallen leaves freezes the blood in her veins. In the dusk, the shape of a man appears - a young soldier without his winged helmet but with the black tabard with the golden sun draped over his body. He stares at her, hesitantly.

“Sheyss… You shouldn’t be here, it’s dangerous.” The drawn-out syllables of the Nilfgaardian dialect are simultaneously familiar and foreign to her ears.

She runs, but he is faster, and stronger. His gauntlets dig into her shoulders, and she falls, shrieking and kicking.

“By the Great Sun, calm down!”

It’s too late. The girl’s vision blackens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline
> 
> 1221 - Emhyr is born (my headcanon)  
> 1228 – Dissidents form against Emhyr’s father, Fergus var Emreis. The coup fails.  
> 1234 - Fergus var Emreis is overthrown by an unnamed usurper (my headcanon).  
> 1237 – Duny, Urcheon of Erlenwald, saves Roegner of Ebbing and invokes the law of surprise. Pavetta is born.  
> 1238 - Stella Congreve (later Liddertal) is born (my headcanon)  
> 1251 – False Ciri is born (my headcanon).  
> 1252 – Duny and Pavetta are married.  
> 1253 – Real Ciri is born.  
> 1257 – Pavetta dies. Emhyr avenges his father’s death and regains power in Nilfgaard.  
> 1263 – Slaughter of Cintra. False Cirilla is brought to different refugee camps until she ends up working for a clothier in Brugge.  
> 1267 - Thanedd coup. False Cirilla is kidnapped and brought to Loc Grim from fort Nastrogg.  
> 1268 – Battle of Stygga castle, Peace of Cintra, Emhyr marries false Cirilla.  
> 1290 – Emhyr dies. Morvran Voorhis Emperor.


	2. Chapter 2

_True human goodness, in all its purity and freedom, can come to the fore only when its recipient has no power._

_Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being_

_1263 - 1267, Dillingen, Angren_

War changes everything. Men are turned into soldiers, clothes into rags, waste into food. Items previously seen as trash transforms into small treasures. The world that scented of bread, wine, fresh grass, soft soap and perfume turns into to a conglomerate of dirt, blood, clangs of steel, wails of pain, and raging fire.

The steel gauntlets of the Nilfgaardian soldier leave bruises on the girl’s skin that last for weeks. Contrary to her fears, he feeds her, quenches her thirst, and drops her off outside a village not far from her house, from where she is sent to a refugee camp south of Dillingen. She learns of the fall of Cintra city, the death of the Queen, and the disappearance of the Lion Cub. The girl thinks of her family and weeps. She is sent to another refugee camp in Angren.

She dreams of newly baked loaves of bread, of smoked hinds of deer, of fat milk and pastries with layers of fruit and berries. She is served rationed portions of corn soup, stale bread and occasional sour apples that leaves her insides aching in cramps.

She screams the first time she encounters the woodlice and cockroaches that roam the camp, but soon learns to fear the rats more; large as her underarm, some with naked backs where their fur is worn. Another refugee, a young dwarf by the name of Nila, teaches her to use a slingshot to keep them at bay. Nila is from the Mahakam mountains. He has kind, brown eyes and speaks in a dialect so thick his words escape her, and whenever he finds her, cold and shivering, he warms her icy hands in his.

She wakes up one morning missing the thin golden chain around her neck, the last item of her old life, along with Nila who is nowhere to be found. She can’t resent him. Hunger is a powerful authority.

Spring arrives and the war rages on. She volunteers to help in the infirmary, witnessing unimaginable strains. Every night, she washes to rid herself of the stench of death until her skin burns and chafes. She is ridden by mares of severed limbs and pus-filled wounds. One day, her throat swells and rasps as if punctured by thorny vines, her entire body aches in fever.

_Diphteria?_

_No - yes, possibly. Let us pray it’s only the influenza. Goddess watch over her._

The priestess’ voice is muddled, as if trapped behind thick glass. The girl sinks into the fog of her quenched consciousness, wondering if she’ll ever see daylight again.

_Angren refugee camp, March 1265_

_Noted by Lieutenant Terning, East Ribbon garrison._

_Inventory_

126 woolen blankets

85 barrels of oats (2 suspected fermentation).

93 sacks of grain (3 suspected rat infestation).

232 packets of dried meat, expected shortage if supplies are not restocked within next Birke.

31 sacks of apples; insufficient!

89 sacks of carrots

Water still abundant (thank Melitele).

Shortage of firewood - needs immediate attention!

Supplies of medicinal herbs still adequate, a slight shortage of leeches, ergot seeds and mandrake root.

Bandages and cloth for binding wounds in shortage; usage of torn clothes necessary.

Clothes needed, any types! Children’s kirtles, breeches, stockings, shirts, sandals.

(scribbled in the margins of the notes, harshly with scattered ink stains)

May the black ones rot in hell!

_February 25th, 1266, Angren._

_Noted by Deaconess Morag_

_We lost two more today. Goddess go with them. But it seems the worst spell of the blight is over. The Cintrian girl is finally recovering; the astral planes must be merciful to her. More prayers and blood-letting needed. She refuses to speak; an effect of the infection or the trauma?_

_I pray for this war to be over soon. I don’t even care who wins anymore._

(the last sentence is repeatedly crossed over)

_1267, Brugge_

In the town square of Brugge, facing the well and the bush of the rosa rubingnosa, three terrace houses stands in a row. The first is built from lime mortar covered in green plaster, the second is a timber framed house in white plaster, and the third a red brick house with brass scissors hanging adjacent to the entrance door. A sign with the text

_Hellebeck’s Fashion and Frocks_

_Clothier and Tailor_

sways in the evening breeze, emitting a faint creak.

Inside, Olipsio Hellebeck, a middle aged hafling, perches by a high walnut desk. Dressed in a teal shirt over an elegant pourpoint, he pushes his spectacles up the root of his large nose with a sigh and scribbles a note in his book of orders and debts to memorize the instruction to produce a new gown for Lady Hanskarsthal. She orders diasper silk and tippets, the new fashion of white linen bands sewn above the elbow of kirtles. As with most fashion these days, the tippets are imported from the south - as much as the Northern kingdoms claim to detest Nilfgaard, they nonetheless adopts the southern style, from the brick-colored hems of kirtles to the black surcoats called garnarche. Little does Olipsio care where the latest fashion derives from; may it be Kovir or even Haakland, as long as the dames and gents come to his establishment with requests for new garments. He boasts the finest customer base in the Brugge region, and once sewed a sable beluque for the late Queen Calanthe’s First Lady of the Bedchamber. Not bad for a halfling.

A ruffled sound draws his attention to the next room. From his position by the writing desk, he has an overview of the girl who measures cloth from his inventory, a room stacked with large rolls of different fabrics; from coarse wool to stiff linen, violet cendal silk, delicate brocade, ribbed samite in various colors, scarlet tiretaine, and kermes-dyed velvet. His stash of hide and fur - fine furs, no rabbit or cat - is locked in another room, with a key only he has access to.

He calls her name. It is a bland name, not fitting a girl of noble birth, which the Deaconess from the refugee camp assured him she was. Apparently, the girl almost died from pneumonia; she is still far too pale to be considered healthy, and skinny like twig. Her fine teeth and hands gave her origin away; one look at her was enough to take her in. She had been with him for roughly three months now.

“We’ll need 30 palms of red diasper for the Handskarsthal gown! And ten duims of linen straps, white.”

The girl nods and spins to measure the requested amount of cloth. Olipsio hums contentedly and readjusts the glasses that slips down his nose again. She works hard, this orphan girl with the sad, green eyes, and never complains. She doesn’t say much at all, which suits him fine. Gods know he needs the help now that his sister is dead, and his establishment is popular among the populace of Brugge.

The brass bell above his front door tingles as a late customer steps in. The last, Olipsio thinks, before I close for the day. The man who enters has an unhealthy complexion, greenish eyes and grey hair, but his moss-green frock and leather boots are of a fine standard, and his gaze is clear and quick.

“Good evening sir”, Olipsio greets the man, and places his quill on the desk. “May I help you?

“Good evening. Mr Hellebeck, I presume? I would like to place a request for a pair of gloves.”

“Certainly.” Olipsio darts a knowing glance to the customers hands. “A size seven and a half. Pigskin?”

The man affirms with a nod.

“Your name, sir?”

Olipsio picks up his quill and reopens his book of orders, but the customer does not answer. The halfling lifts an inquisitive gaze to find the man staring into the adjacent room with an expression of revelation. The hafling clears his throat.

The customer tears his gaze from the girl.

“Michael Glomb.”

“One week, mister Glomb. Three ducats. Any embellishment, such as embroidery, will be a ducat extra.”

The man bends his neck in a single, stiff movement, and leaves.

To Olipsio Hellebeck’s great annoyance, the mysterious Michael Glomb never returns to collect his pig skin gloves.

The girl nods to her employer, who wishes her a good night, before she closes the door of the clothier’s shop. It’s well past supper time. Illuminated by the scattered lanterns along the streets leading to Brugge town square, the cobblestones underneath her feet glisten. She passes the front of the red brick house and turns left into an alley, heading for the small room she rents from Olipsio’s cousin, a friendly, middle-aged halfling, who gives her a discount on the rent in exchange for household chores.

It’s not the kind of life she had pictured before the war. She suspects life never waits to be chosen, but moves in unforeseen and arbitrary, perhaps even cruel directions, from where one can only decide how to live through the twists and turns of fate, powerless to control the current.

A large hand closes over her mouth from behind and drags her into the shadows. Eyes widening in terror, she emits a strangled yelp but the iron grip of the man does not loosen. The man pulls her into an enclosed backyard of the neighbouring house and hisses a command to be silent. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t fight, only stumbles on the skirts of her dress as she’s being dragged towards the corner of the yard, heart hammering against her ribs. Two men surround her, the hand of the third man still wrapped around her mouth.

One of the men could have been described as handsome, had it not been for a disfiguring scar that covers half his face. The sight freezes the blood in her veins.

He scrutinizes her with narrowed eyes.

“The portrait didn’t lie. That idiot detective held a treasure in his drawer.”

He smirks and takes a step back to rummage through a leather satchel fastened to his hip. The man beside him is shrouded in the shadows, observing her with arms folded on his chest.

Her guts twist in nausea. _Please_ \- she wishes to speak but is unable produce any sound - _please don’t hurt me_.

“Take her to Verden. Commander Pitcair is in charge of Nastrogg, tell him you act under the orders of my master, who found and brought her from Thanedd according to the Emperor’s command. Do not speak to anyone but him!”

She doesn’t understand a word of the scarred man’s discourse, but words are better than violence.

He lifts a vial of a silvery liquid from his satchel and uncorks it with a sucking sound. She snaps from her numb state. With all the might she can muster, she thrashes in the arms of the man she has yet to see, whose iron grip around her arms tighten in response.

“Hold her.”

The scarred man brings the liquid to her face. Her captor releases his hand from her mouth, grabs her jaw and forces her mouth open. The liquid streams down her throat, cold and tasteless, she squints and lets out a pained, gurgled mewl.

The liquid sprawls inside her, spreading first a cold, then a hot sensation.

The last thing she registers before her mind tumbles into a numbing darkness is the scarred man’s voice.

“It’s for your own good, Princess.”

_1267, Verden_

The fortress of Nastrogg is built from blocks of granite and is surrounded by a sturdy rampart, opened through a massive gatehouse. The black- and yellow checkered flag of Verden is replaced by the symbol of the golden sun, flapping in the wind at the top of the keep. Before the cart rolls into the gatehouse, the man she has learned goes by the name of Schirrú casts the girl a pointy glance; she stiffens her jaw in fright. She regained full sense the day before. She is not bound; the two men that escorts her are frightening enough to keep her still and quiet as a mouse.

Schirrú signals for the carriage to stop. Her breath stutters when he turns to grab her by the jaw.

“You’ve behaved good so far, Princess. Continue to do so as we reach Nastrogg. I don’t want to hear a word from you to anyone once we’re inside the fortress, do you understand?”

She opens her eyes. His gaze pierces her. Involuntarily struck by their color: greenish, but with a yellow ring around the pupil, she considers his race. His ears are pointy, but his looks are far from the rumored elven beauty. He must be a half-breed, just like… Why does he call her ‘princess’? The result of a morose sense of humor?

Jaw hurting from his grip, she nods. The other man called Nazarian by the half-elf spits on the ground and squints against the light of the sun burning above the fortress’ tower.

Godycvon Pitcair is not a man known to be prone to melancholy. He has earned his military rank through keeping his mouth shut, his hands on the hilt of his sword, and through obeying orders without question and expecting the same of his men. As the commanding officer of the strategically important fortress of Nastrogg, he and his company forms a bulwark against enemy troops from the north, and functions as guards of prisoners of war.

Overlooking the dirt floor of the circular courtyard, turned to mud by guards, servants, traders and livestock, Pitcair is overcome by a pang of homesickness. He wishes to leave these cold, northern lands where everyone hates the symbol of the sun, to return to the City of Golden Towers where his wife and two children await him, to never see the insides of this shithole of a fortress again. He would rather die than to voice such thoughts, though. Pain is but a weakness leaving the body - the well-worn military phrase echoes empty in his mind. If that were true, he’d be the strongest man in the world.

At this time of the day, Nastrogg bustle with life. People move in and out of the main gates, escorted by guards. A few hens cackle by the stables, a pig grunts by the grey stone walls. Children of servants run around, playing pundits and paladin with sticks for swords. The fortress keep looms on top of a wide set of stairs, with a round bailey on top and battlements with turrets and watchtowers where guards hold an outlook and where, at night, they escape to play Screwed (Pitcair allows it, his men deserve some entertainment in this pathetic excuse for a province).

This morning, he has received a confidential message about an incoming, highly important prisoner. Pitcair steps down the stairs of the bailey to greet the two men who jump down from a black cart pulled by two thoroughbreds. He knows them - they work for Rience, by direct orders of the Emperor. Inside the carriage, Pitcair can just make out the silhouette of a slim figure. His insides make a small jolt. The curious message makes sense in an instant - this is indeed a case of highest imperial importance. This might be what finally brings the war to an end and allows for his return home.

He stops a boy who runs past, chasing his friends in a game of hide and seek.

“Bring Ada, the kitchen maid. Tell her our new guest is a woman. Go!”

He pauses as the Princess of Cintra is hauled from the carriage, wearing an ordinary kirtle over a linen smock, face barely visible through her mane of blonde locks hanging in disarray. Not very princess-like, Pitcair thinks, but that is not my problem.

“Your Grace.” Commander Pitcair bows the Nilfgaardian way, with one hand over his heart, the other outstretched beside him.

The girl stares at him, stiff like a tree branch. She looks like she wishes to vanish into thin air. Depending on the course of this war, and the whims of the Emperor, Pitcair thinks, vanishing might be exactly what she’ll do.

They treat her well; bathe her, keep her in a warm room with a bed and a window ledge, complete with cushions and iron bars. They dress her in a soft, linen dress and provide her with new leather slippers. They try to feed her, but her insides protest at the scent of fried chicken.

The sight of Schirrú stepping into her room the next day causes her stomach to sink in frightful disappointment. She had hoped to never see the men who hauled her here again. The half-elf nibbles on sunflower seeds as he strides in and makes sure the doors are locked behind him. He leaves a small mound of seed coats on the small desk in the middle of the room.

“You good?” he asks, brushing his palms against each other and adds with a smirk, “Your Grace?”

She nods, a few quick jerks of her head.

“Better than that camp in Angren, hm? Perhaps as good as your old home?” He chuckles.

She remains silent, fiercely wishing for this visit to be over. She doesn’t know why she is here, or what will become of her, but at this moment, all that matters about her future is to never set her eyes on this man again.

Her breath stops when he steps close and raises his hand. 

“Your life before the war - your family, your house, your name. Forget them.” He leans forward and thrums the tip of his index finger against her temple, once, twice, thrice. She blinks and holds her breath. “Erase them from your mind. You are Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Princess of Cintra. Repeat.”

The girl fights an intense sensation of absurdity. The Princess? But… The Lion Cub - is she dead?

“Repeat!” the man growls, and she flinches. The rounded pommel of the sword on his hip glistens from the light of the open fire. Trembling, she whispers,

“Cirilla… Fiona….”

“Elen Riannon! Again!”

Her stomach lurches.

“Cirilla, Fiona, Elen Ria… Rianno...” she repeats, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Riannon of Cintra,” Schirrú snaps. He hovers over her and fixates her with a weary gaze. Inside the walled fireplace, a log crashes and erupts in a cloud of sparks.

“Your family - tell me their names.”

She wishes with her whole being to be free of this man. To be free of his presence, the oily sheen on his face and of his breath that smells of the sunflower seeds he bit like a squirrel. She imagines him disappearing from this world.

“Pavett - Pavetta. Calanthe.” Panic rushes through her in an intense wave. What was the name of Pavetta’s consort? Duny! Duny of...

Schirrú nods in satisfaction and leans closer again. To her horror, he pulls a strand of her hair and twirls it around his finger.

“If the Emperor finds out you are not Cirilla Fiona, he will be very displeased with me and my master,” he croons. He lets out a puff of air through his nose as if his discourse amuses him. “He will have us hunted and strapped to the breaking wheel. We don’t want that, do we?”

She shakes her head, sniffling.

He fondles her cheek. She clamps her eyes shut, skin crawling from the unwanted touch.

“And what will he do to you, hm?”

She darts her gaze back at him, wide-eyed. He smiles like a cat that has caught its prey.

“Perhaps lock you up in a frigid dungeon and throw away the key? Or throw you from the cliffs into the Great Sea? Perhaps he’ll let his guards have their way with you?”

This prompts a chuckle from him, before his gaze intensifies, like burning embers.

“If you so much as breathe a word of not being Cirilla, Princess of Cintra, I will hunt you down myself. My face will be the last thing you see in your regrettable life.”

His breath is short, his nostrils flare. She represses a sound of disgust as he trails a smooth line along her arm with his finger.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she croaks, her body cold and stiff, “yes,” she repeats to assure him.

He stands still, his jaw clenching and slackening.

“Good. Repeat your names.”

She does as told, with no mistake. He smiles wolfishly.

“Long live the Empress.”

Schirrú spits a remaining seed on the floor, and walks out of the room. She is left gazing emptily out through the window.

In its wish to live, her body pumps jolts of adrenaline through her veins. She sits on the ledge and tries to control her breath. Slowly, her frantic heart rate abates. The part of her brain not hard wired for survival rises through the muddled smoke of fear and panic. The Nilfgaardians have been searching for the Princess, she thinks, by the orders of the Emperor. His lackeys failed. They bring me to cover up their failure, provided I play the part.

What do they want with the Princess? What did he call me? Empress? Through her exhaustion and fear, her brain manages to spin one logical thread of thought.

_The Emperor wishes to marry her to gain power over Cintra._

She is filled by an intense, burning wish that the Princess indeed is dead. Her own life depends on the real Cirilla Fiona never being found. The thought twists her insides. Her head throbs, her throat constricts, but she continues to repeat the names that must be hers, willing them to be imprinted into her mind - Cirilla Fiona, Elen Riannon, Cirilla Fiona, Elen Riannon...

She falls asleep on the small bed, exhausted. The next day, she is taken to the Nilfgaardian capital.

_1267, The City of Golden Towers, Nilfgaard_

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, Estella vel Stella, the Countess of Liddertal thinks, as she observes the scene outside the windows. She directs a quick, stern glance at Ivy, her chambermaid, who stretches her neck to witness the hubbub below. The servant lets out an amused squeal, but when she notices Stella’s expression, she retreats and leaves the room.

On the street outside Stella’s suite, a woman in a lush, green dress and golden hair is frogmarched to a carriage by no less than four of the Imperial guards. She startles the horses with her angry cries.

“You’ll regret this, Emhyr!” she bellows, “I know you! You’ll come begging to lay in my bed again! Don’t touch me!” The woman snarls at the soldier trying to calm her down, her pearly-white teeth bared. Her eyes are large and feral, her blonde mane uncouthly tumbling down her shoulders, loosened from her coif during the struggle. The soldier looks like he’s facing a spitting wyvern.

“Cholera on you!” she screams and spurts more insults towards the castle walls. Stella frowns at the sloping shoulders and tears of the blonde woman, who is forced inside the wagon and taken away. Her angry wails are heard even as the carriage takes a turn at the intersection and vanishes out of sight.

“By the Great Sun,” Ivy comments as she re-enters the room with a white, ruffled collar; the last detail of Stella’s outfit, “do you think she’ll ever be accepted back to court, my Lady?”

“The Baroness of Tarnhann has a way of getting what she wants. But after today, I doubt it.”

“At least the Baron will be happy to get his wife back!”

“That, I also doubt. Now, to the task at hand. The girl’s been escorted to the sitting room?”

Ivy nods and fastens the collar around Stella’s neck. The small, plump maid stands on a foot stool to reach up.

“Is it true then,” she exclaims as Stella turns, “The Emperor intends to marry the Nordling? It must be, since he’s getting rid of Dervla Goldhair! Oh but Lady Stella, the girl looks like she’s no older than fourteen...”

Stella narrows her eyes. She has a reputation of being kind to her staff, but if this woman thinks she will discuss the Emperor’s affairs with a chambermaid, she is sorely mistaken. But in truth, Emhyr’s decision to oust the baroness, his favorite for the last three years, puzzles Stella, and puzzlement is a sentiment she is unaccustomed to.

Ivy turns pink.

“Oh Lady Stella, forgive me!” she squeaks.

“You may return to your duties, Ivy.”

The girl scurries out. Stella inspects her reflection in the mirror one last time, squares her shoulders, and leaves her private chambers for the sitting room.

The Countess of Liddertal is a lofty and dignified woman, with dark hair and brown eyes. Although never considered a beauty, she boasts good teeth, a clear complexion, and impeccable taste. She always dresses fashionably, never extravagant. The Emperor calls her a paragon of female grace and wit.

She was born the youngest daughter of Otto of Congreve in 1238. Her elder sister married the baron of Gemmera and had three sons. Her father doted on his daughters and showered them with affection and gifts. As Stella came into age and showed talent for mathematics, her father employed tutors to encourage her affinity. He taught her the intricacies of various estate businesses, encouraging her to take interest in the family investments into forestry and mining. He was in his fifties when she was born and consequently died of old age when she was still a teenager. When she was seventeen, shortly before his death, Stella’s father secured the marriage between her and old count Liddertal The marriage was harmonious but childless. During the uprising and return of Fergus var Emreis’ lost heir, her husband supported Emhyr during the coup and was rewarded with the Emperor’s trust. The old count Liddertal died not long after, and Stella was left with a considerable wealth, much of which she invested in her father’s mining and forestry companies.

All these talents did not go unnoticed by the new Emperor - she is now one of Emhyr ‘s most trusted advisors, and he often seeks her advice in matters regarding the Empire. At twenty-four years old, she is part of a group of nobles, encouraged by the Merchant’s Guild, beseeching Emhyr to go to war. She has no doubt the Emperor is aware it would further her business interest, but he cannot dismiss her argument on the need to quell the rebellious Cintrians and the benefits of gaining power of the mouth of the Yaruga.

Three years after the outbreak of war against the Northern Kingdoms, she is entrusted with the task of caring for the lost and found Princess of Cintra and re-introducing her to courtly manners. She accepts the responsibility with utmost seriousness. The Nordling Princess may hold the key to a prosperous peace treaty, and both the Emperor and her own sense of duty demand the strictest care for the girl.

Stella strides into the sitting room. On the edge of her settee, hands resting in her lap and her feet drawn under her, sits a child; skinny like a stick, with dull, blonde hair in an unfashionable coif and deep, purple strands under her eyes. She is dressed in an ill-fitting dress in the dark colors of the empire, which contrasts unbecomingly against her pale complexion.

Two things strike Stella. First, that the rumors of Cintrian Princesses’ elven origin must be true. Second, that other dresses must be arranged for her, in green, and light blue, perhaps white. The Emperor will not appreciate her wearing these sombre colors. An image of the voluptuous bosom of the furious Baroness of Tarnhann flashes in her mind. _I must find a way to fatten her… It will be impossible before the audience in Loc Grim._

Stella’s hand flies to her chest at the sight of the large, sad eyes looking up at her; the girl stands up, head bent, and curtsies. She is visibly trembling.

“Your Grace,” she whispers with a voice so faint Stella scarcely hears it. She speaks Nilfgaardian with a Cintiran dialect.

Stella is weighted by the difficulty of the task before her. The prospect of this girl ever becoming the future Empress of Nilfgaard is laughable. Internally reproaching herself for thinking appearance has anything to do with political marriage, Stella walks up to her and takes her hands. The girl let out a small gasp.

“Welcome, Princess. My name is Stella Congreve, Countess of Liddertal, as you have been informed by my chambermaid, and from now on I will be your caregiver. As such, I wish for us to be less formal. Please call me Lady Stella.”

The girl bows her head. Her hands are cold, but dry.

Stella sits and gestures for the girl to follow her on the settee.

“There is no reason to beat around the bush, Cirilla. That is your name, correct?”

“Cirilla, Fiona, Elen, Riannon of Cintra” the girl recites, as if her names were alien to her. By the Great Sun, Stella thinks, this child is either traumatized beyond repair, or she is a bit backwards.

“In a week’s time,”, Stella announces, “the Emperor will return to Loc Grim, the imperial summer residence, from Darn Ruach. He is granting an audience, and expects that you fully understand the protocol of the imperial court. The bulk of the Nilfgaardian nobility will be there, all to take a glance at you. They will not be kind - these are times of war. Do you understand?”

The Princess nods and inhales a deep breath, as if to brace herself for the upcoming challenge. A miniscule ache pinches at Stella’s heart. The girl’s frayed nerves are palpable; the court will eat her alive.

Well, she has a week to prepare her. Not a minute to lose.

“Cheer up, girl. To be greeted by the Emperor is a huge honor. Now, we shall dine together, and immediately begin your lessons.”

_1267, Loc Grim castle_

Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, The White Flame Dancing on the Grave Mounds of His Enemies, adjusts the shining opal on his finger.

In mere minutes, he will greet Cirilla Fiona to his court.

His daughter.

He is confident Cirilla won’t recognize him. Experts have assured him children seldom remember anything before the age of three, and she was merely four when they saw each other last. As Duny, he wore a beard he hated; as Emhyr, he makes sure to always be meticulously clean-shaven.

Back in Cintra, he was never close to his daughter. He did not intend for her conception, and before her birth, as Duny, he promised her to the witcher for saving him from Rainfarn’s dagger. How to love that which did not rightfully belong to you, that which you were destined to lose, without crushing your heart? Perhaps he could have been a more attentive parent had her mother had not pried Cirilla away from him, until any attempt from his side to forge a bond with the girl subsided. Soon, he was too busy plotting his revenge, his return to Nilfgaard, and his imminent glory as the savior of this world to care for little else.

He was never a real father to her. The unbidden thought triggers a pang of reproach in his heart. He ignores the sting.

No, she will not know him. He will know her, but in relation to his end goal, his knowledge of their kinship is irrelevant. Falka’s heir will be born from his blood, and through him, the world saved from destruction.

A heated wave of triumph courses through him. The news of the Lion Cub willingly surrendering to Nilfgaard has already struck a humiliating blow to Vissegerd, the commander of the Cintrian guerilla army. Emhyr’s victory is imminent. The world is within his grasp.

He shakes off a near indiscernible shiver along his spine, and marches out to meet the assembly of nobles, to take the throne and introduce the missing Princess of Cintra to court as her benefactor.

A murmur from the crowd resonates from behind the doors. The false Cirilla Fiona’s insides ache at the faint sound. Standing in the the throne rooms’ antechamber in Loc Grim, she tries to breath slowly, deliberately, but her tight corset only allows for short intakes of air. Stella adjusts the light blue dress on her and smooths the ribbons at the sleeves, a small wrinkle between her brows.

The girl observes the woman who has treated her so diligently this last week. Not a single time has the Countess huffed at her ignorance of protocol, not once has she laughed in her face or scolded her like a stupid child. On the contrary, Lady Stella’s dark eyes, deep like wells with a sparkle of crisp wit, have often smiled at her in encouragement.

To the girl’s surprise, she hasn’t woken from nightmares once since she arrived at Lady Stella’s home.

The Countess is clothed in the ceremonial court black, with a rust-colored smock underneath, and the typical ruffled white collar and sleeves. They are waiting to be summoned - Lady Stella has explained the Emperor would be called by the herold first, before beckoning them to make their entrance.

“Follow my lead, Cirilla, and everything will be alright. Remember what I’ve taught you. Back straight. Eyes in front of you, preferably on the floor - it is considered a serious breach of etiquette to stare, especially at the Emperor. Do not speak until you are bidden, though I doubt your words will be of any interest this morning.”

Stella pats Cirilla’s hand.

“Everything will be alright,” she repeats softly.

The tap of the herold’s pole knock the marble floors. The murmur from the crowd dies.

“Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carp aep Morvudd!”

 _The White Flame Dancing on the Grave-Mounds of Enemies_. The girl is familiar with his title. Her heart rate accelerates.

Bodies bow, kirtles, jerkins and doublets ruffle. Steps resonate against the floor. Nothing happens for several minutes, before the sound of a cleared throat echoes in the otherwise silent room behind the doors.

Another ruffle of clothes and outlets of held breaths are heard. The herold taps the floor a second time. He announces her name and titles, so many, she never knew they were so many, she must remember them...

“By me, Cirilla,” Stella whispers as the doors open from the other side.

The warm scent of at least a hundred bodies emanate from the throne room. A sea of eyes turn to her, not only from the floor but also from the balconies that encircle the throne from three sides. Nobles, squires and magnates dressed in black garments crowd along the white walls, between the alabaster pillars of the balconies, and under large circular lamps that are lit despite the fresh sunlight that spills from massive, oval windows, reflecting in jewels of necklaces and rings.

She is by far the youngest in the room. Heat creeps up her neck to bloom in her face.

Why has Lady Stella dressed her in blue? To accentuate the fact that she is foreign? Traipsing next to the Countess like a dove among crows, she is unable to feel her fingers, unable to feel her feet.

In front of her looms the throne, raised from the floor by golden steps and shaded by a canopy from which a tabard of the Great Sun hangs. Upon the throne sits the Emperor. The White Flame. Back in Cintra, the rumors of the Nilfgaardian ruler and his revenge of the usurper spread like wildfire, invoking fear in his name. Trembling, she keeps her eyes on the floor and focuses on the speckled pattern of the white marble.

The Emperor straightens on his throne, and the crowd bows again. Stella places her hand on the small of the girl’s back and encourages her forward. She stumbles.

 _One foot, the other foot, do not faint, one foot…_ She wears shoes that pinch her feet, in a similar blue shade of satin to her dress.

She stumbles again, but regains her balance, the Countess her only anchor. In the corner of her vision, the Emperor leans back and lifts his hand to his face.

Unnoticeable to anyone in the room but the girl, Stella tenses. Hyper aware of her caretaker’s movements, the girl stops on the spot. She must have imagined the momentary loss of presence of mind by Lady Stella, for the Countess bows and coaxes her to do the same.

The room is silent. Her body vibrates from the pounding of her heart.

“Princess.”

Although the deep note of the Emperor’s voice resonates pleasantly in her ears, she cringes. Everything about this situation causes her insides to tighten until she is nothing but hard ropes of dread. She’ll never fool anyone, least not this man whose gaze burns holes in her skull. Everyone in this room resents her, hates her, sees her as inferior and unworthy...

 _I’m going to die_. Her mouth turns to cotton, knees nearly giving in under her.

The Emperor speaks. He welcomes her to his imperium, mentions the lands that have been stolen from her and that shall be returned, assures her that in Nilfgaard, her presence is an honor, whilst others would have her life.

She flicks a glance at him. He roams his gaze over the assembled nobility.

She is struck by two things: the robustness and lack of adornment in his appearance, which accentuates his dignity in contrast to the frivolous extravagance of the rest of the men in the crowd, and his political skill, apparent in the manner of his speech and in the way he commands the room.

The slow evaporation of fear in her heart surprises her. His words are a political tool in a game she is unable to grasp, but her thirst for kindness, for respectful discourse, is so strong her body involuntary relaxes. She dares to take another peek at him and catches a sight of natural, black hair, greying at the temples, of unrelenting eyes, a regal nose, and a heavy gold chain over a broad chest.

He speaks of their common enemies, of her imminent return to claim her homeland’s throne, and she bows her head low in response.

“And,” the Emperor continues, “because in your kingdom, the flames of war are still burning, as proof of my respect and friendship of Nilfgaard, I grant you the title of Infanta of Rowan and Ymlac, Lady of the castle Darn Rowan, to which you will go now, to await the coming of a calmer, happier time.”

Stella grips her arm, the guests bow. The Emperor patiently waits for them to leave. She does not stumble a single time as they exit the throne room.

The Countess of Liddertal and the Infanta of Rowan and Ymlac step into the carriage and begin their journey back to the capital.

“Now,” Stella ventures, “that wasn’t so bad, hm?” her own words sound false to her. The girl is obviously not whom he expected. It is possible he spurns her, ugly as she is... He will hold her as a pawn, perhaps to rid of her once the war is won. There are many things the Countess of Liddertal can only guess in this moment.

Lady Stella assesses the ramification of the recent events. If there are any positive outcomes of this misstep, it is decidedly that the Emperor did not proclaim the girl as the future Empress. It would have caused too much dissent among certain individuals within the nobility who are adamant Emhyr marries any of their daughters. He needs a more opportune moment.

“Lady Stella, where is Darn Rowan?”

The silvery voice of the girl surprises the Countess. Besides reciting her names, and obedient whispers of “yes, Lady Stella”, this is the first time the girl speaks.

“Oh, it is situated in the mountains, a lovely spot, with the river Alba nearby…”

“Will you come with me?”

Stella nods in reassurance, flattered by the display of trust. The girl relaxes against her seat and turns her gaze out of the small window of the carriage.

Deep in thought, Stella sighs and strengthens her resolve. The Emperor has not released her of her duty to the girl; and so she will accompany her to Darn Rowan, to continue her tutelage of courtly customs. Although Stella has never visited the castle - the fortress is known to Nilfgaardians to hold political prisoners - her late husband often hunted in the premises and at times, she accompanied him to enjoy the mountainous surroundings. Perhaps there are worse places to be than the end of the world? As they are settled in, there is not reason not to take up her work on trigonometry - yes, why not? Stella doubts they will stay at Darn Rowan for long. It all depends on the war.

Stroking the white, ruffled sleeve of her dress, a weight presses on Stella’s heart. These are times of war, and war demands difficult decisions only an Emperor can make. But why, she thinks, casting a glance on the girl, why is it always the weak and innocent that ultimately suffer from such decisions?

_Am I not as guilty to her predicament as he is?_

The thought sends a spike of ice through the heart of the Countess of Liddertal.

The girl who has been given the title Lady of Darn Rowan breathes with less pressure on her chest than she has in weeks. In a castle in the mountains, she will surely be safe from Schirrú?

With lingering amazement, she returns to the scene in the throne room. The pause before the Emperor addressed her, Lady Stella’s tensed behavior - he must have recognized her for what she is - an imposter? He acted so stern, so cold behind all the polite discourse… And yet he did not expose her, nor did he humiliate her in front of the crowd. Maybe he did believe she is the lost Princess? Perhaps he could not expose her without also exposing himself as betrayed and humiliated - an Emperor with subordinates who think they can fool him?

All she knows is that he did not order for her execution, but sent her to a secluded place, in promise of calmer, happier times. She must believe him. Through sending her away, she can continue to act as Cirilla Fiona, and as long as she does, she has her life. 

He did not voice any intention of marrying her. The girl swallows. She cannot imagine being the wife of that man - he is older than her mother was.

She glances at the woman in the ceremonial, dark dress opposite to her. I must be Cirilla, the girl thinks, to continue to be the subject of Lady Stella’s care. She has promised me everything will be alright.

Her hands tremble in her lap.

The Emperor of Nilfgaard collapses onto the chair behind his desk in the imperial library. He has just dismissed Vattier de Rideaux, Vicecount of Eddion, Stefan Skellen, Seneshal Caellach, and the farseer Xarthisius. Inhaling a few controlled breaths, the tensed muscles of Emhyr’s shoulders relax, the flood wave of rage in his veins slows to a trickle of ice.

It takes him a while to recognize the lightness in his chest as relief. He has little interest in examining the sentiment though, and pushes it away in favor of the thought of Vilgefortz of Roggeveen.

Emhyr anticipates the screams of agony from the treacherous mage, when he finds him, with cold satisfaction. He has patiently awaited revenge before. Time is always on his side. And until then…

He calls his chamberlain, who steps into the room and bows.

”I want any sign of torture removed from Darn Rowan before they arrive, and any remaining prisoner to be disposed of. Send a group of staff to ensure the place is in meticulous order. If the Countess of Liddertal informs me of so much as a speck of dust, a thread of a spider’s web, their heads will roll. Do I make myself clear?”

”Perfectly clear, Imperial Majesty.”

”Any request from the Countess will be fulfilled, immediately.”

”Of course.”

”Good. Dismissed.”

The chamberlain bows, and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A [fortepiano](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fortepiano) is an early form of the 16th century piano. If we imagine the witcher world as a parallel to our medieval times, the existence of a fortepiano in this fic is anachronistic, but I took the liberty to insert it as I was inspired by piano music when writing.
> 
> A list of [Medieval fabrics](http://www.medievalists.net/2015/06/a-five-minute-guide-to-medieval-fabrics/)
> 
> A list of [Medieval clothing](http://www.personal.utulsa.edu/~marc-carlson/cloth/glossary.html). For example, a pourpoint is a men’s doublet. 
> 
> Palms and duims are obsolete units of length, used in the middle ages.
> 
> Who was [Michael Glomb](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Michael_Glomb)? 
> 
> Did you notice the Shakespeare reference? ^^


	3. Chapter 3

_How many loved your moments of glad grace,_

_and loved your beauty with love false or true,_

_but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,_

_and loved the sorrows of your changing face._

_\- William Butler Yeats, When You Are Old (abridged)_

_1267, Alba Valley_

The girl who has banished any other names for herself than Cirilla Fiona grasps the edges of the carriage window and drinks in the sight of the Alba valley. The sierra surrounds them in a solid embrace of white limestone, intersected by grey granite and speckled with snow. The base of the mountain is covered in yews, pine, and chestnut trees, harboring flocks of red deer and ibex. Crisp layers of frost on the ground melt into whiffs of smoke in the morning sun, while the Alba river flows through the gorge like a glittering, waving ribbon.

Darn Rowan is enclosed by steep cliffs from three sides. Protecting it from invaders - or preventing any possibility to leave, the girl thinks. The castle is a more of a fortress; twice the size of Nastrogg, its structure impressive, intimidating. The only way to reach the edifice is across a great, granite bridge that stretches over a yawning trench, secured by a sturdy barbican and an iron portcullis that protests with a creak as they enter. They arrive at a bailey surrounded by thick curtain walls, where scattered guards parade the battlements and peer out of arrow loops and machicolations. Inside, servants and merchants scurry to take their position in the stables, the blacksmith or the kitchen. A few hens cackle in a corner, horses snort to greet the carriages. The keep ( _the great hall_ , Stella instructs her), gives a less military impression than the exterior of the castle. The entrance looms on top of a grand staircase, the keep itself adorned with turrets and towers, its front covered in the black drapery of the Great Sun. Large, oval windows in colorful glass tiles reveal lit lamps inside, a promise of warmth in contrast to the chill air in these mountainous areas that covers their skin in goose bumps.

The sight of the interior makes the girl forget courtesy; she gapes at the hall that opens to a large set of stairs, covered in a red rug, leading to the private chambers of the second floor. The room smells of lit candles and newly polished floors. The walls, although constructed from dull granite, are adorned with portraits of Nilfgaardian royalty, as well as with golden etchings that illustrate scenes from popular legends. She walks up to one of the plates - a fiery dragon and a knight, crouched behind his shield to protect himself from the beast’s deadly flame. The beauty of it makes her reach out and touch the golden lines of the flames, alive in the morning light.

She exhales as she reaches the next etching. It is a scene from her favorite legend of a woman enchanted to a harpy, freed from her monster form by a hunter. The pair marries, lives through numerous adventures together, until they conquer the evil forces that control their realm and become its rulers. To see the legend come to life under the artist’s fingers, displayed in this place, fills the girl with a strange, grounding sensation.

In the hubbub of servants carrying trunks, crates and chests into the keep, the girl is left without task. She rests in a corner of the room, removing her cape and mittens. Lady Stella and her chambermaid ascend the stairs to unpack their private coffers and momentarily forget the girl. A young page hurries past to grab her outer garments, leaving her feeling like a teapot left at the breakfast table.

She walks past the servants, carefully steps over a crate of porcelain utensils, and rounds the stairs for the west wing of the fortress. The authoritative voices instructing where to place what diminish as she makes her way down the corridor. Scattered chairs dressed in silken cushions parade the walls; she draws a flowing line in the dust on top of a walnut desk. As she reaches the window, she observes the nuthatches that perch on the chestnut trees outside the castle. 

Tentatively, she turns the handle of an adjacent door; it opens with a creak. Inside, she finds a sitting room with furniture covered in white sheets parading like fixed ghosts. Heavy, moss-colored drapes hang over the windows, and a walled fireplace looms in the short end of the room. The air smells of dust. She walks up to the book shelves that cover the entirety of the southern wall and caresses the spines of leather-colored tomes. Pausing, she randomly pulls at a book. Her eyes widen at the sight of its title: Go I Know Not Wither and Fetch I Know Not What; her favorite legend of the harpy woman and her hunter husband, the very saga depicted on a plate of gold on the walls of the hall she previously admired. For the first time in what feels like years, she smiles.

Her gaze lands on a large piece of furniture by the opposite wall. She pushes the book back into the shelf, takes a few steps and pulls the drapery covering the mysterious shape. A cloud of dust erupts to settle on the mahogany body of a fortepiano - no, this is something else, an instrument like it but more sophisticated.

Her eyes light up with a spark.

Stella inspects their packing and instructs Ivy where to place shoes and garments when the sound of a piano note reaches her ears. She straightens up and turns towards the corridor. The tentative notes turn into a melody. Her chamber maid stills, arms full of folded undergarments, with a quizzical expression on her face.

Stella leaves the room and follows the tune. It is a rushed melody, near chaotic, but also... The notes send a luscious frisson up her arms. She descends the stairs to the lower storey. The servants continue to carry their stock inside, some cast curious glances at the direction of the music. Stella strides through the corridor to the left and stops by the open door to the room furthest in the west wing. Cirilla Fiona stands by an old, dusty pianoforte, hands attacking the keys, her eyes fixated in concentration and neck bent in a release of emotion. The tune slows to a melancholic, distinctive theme, only to be sped up by the girl’s fingers to that pained, near chaotic melody again... The hair on Stella’s arms stands on end. She knits her brows and makes a movement to enter the room when the tip of her shoe taps against the doorstep. The girl lifts her hands from the keys abruptly. The sudden stop of the tune vibrates in the air. Eyes wide, she stares at Stella, her chest heaving and cheeks colored pink.

I was wrong about this girl, Stella thinks. Still waters do run deep. 

A week later, a grand piano is carried inside the castle by no less than five men, huffing and swearing as they lift the enormous instrument into the parlour. The girl observes the piece, swallowing, as one of the men tunes it. She grazes the tips of her fingers against its polished, obsidian veneer and hovers her hand over the ivory keys, but doesn’t play.

It looks like it could swallow her, Stella thinks as she observes the girl’s cautious exploration, this instrument is too big for her, just like the title she’s been given - or forced to embody? Princess. A concept several sizes too large for this girl. But she must learn how to wear it. To play it.

Stella walks up to the piano.

“Come, Cirilla. Play me a tune.”

They have not discussed another name for the girl, but wordlessly agreed to continue the act, and the making of a Princess.

The girl frowns, struggling to find the courage to speak.

“The piano is a gift from the Emperor,” Stella lectures her gently but resolutely, “he would be displeased to know you to not value his consideration.”

Cirilla closes her mouth and approaches the stool to sit next to the Countess. The silk of their dresses rustle in the silence of the room. She lifts her hands and tap the keys in a well-known, innocuous tune.

It’s good, Stella thinks, it’s a start. 

“That melody you played the day we arrived…”

Cirilla stiffens.

“Was it a popular tune in Cintra?”

“No, Lady Stella. I - it was my own composition.” The girls cheeks glow.

“Really? I’m impressed.”

Cirilla sends her a fleeting, unsure glance.

“It was beautiful. Unusual perhaps, but beautiful. Does it have a name?”

To the Countess’ surprise, the girl excuses herself in a strangled voice and leaves hurriedly through the door.

_Your Grace,_

_I know of several spells that enhances appetite, but as I am unable to travel to Darn Rowan, they are of little use, I’m afraid. Do not worry: with this letter I enclose a packet with three individual powders; two for the girl, and one for you, my Lady. The brown powder is to be used as sugar; stir it into her tea. The white powder has the quality of salt; sprinkle it (lightly!) on top of her meals. For the last, yellow powder; blend it with olive oil and you will produce a luscious cream that will erase any trace of greying hair, this I guarantee. All I ask in favor, Countess, is a lock of her hair. You are familiar with the use of proverbs, Countess. Ask no questions and hear no lies. Please consider the many times I have aided you in the past._

_Your humble servant,_

_Fringilla Vigo_

Every morning after breakfast, the girl practices her posture by parading with a book on top of her head, attempting not to let it fall as she treads the floors of the corridors. She reads the collected works on Nilfgaardian history, language and legends, and recites works of famous Nilfgaardian poets. She is no singer, in contrast to her talent with the piano, but learns a few popular tunes. She is accustomed to most of Stella’s lessons from her childhood; learning the names of old Nilfgaardian noble houses and their history is another matter, but she studies hard. Stella instructs her when to speak and when not to speak, whom to acknowledge and whom to ignore, in imagined future scenarios at court. She gives lectures on what silverware to use for what dish at royal suppers.

To Stella’s delighted surprise, the girl enjoys spicy food; ceviche drenched in lemon juice and peppers, preferably with a lean white wine; or almonds dipped in a mix of salt and flakes of chili. Stella nods in satisfaction at the girl’s appetite after dabbing her dishes with a light sprinkle of Fringilla’s powder. The cook takes great measures to provide them with fresh dishes of seafood, despite the distance to the Great Sea, as the girl delights in grilled octopus, cooked crab, shellfish and lobster. Although insistent on teaching her table manners, Stella doesn’t have the heart to reprimand the girl as she takes a crab claw and cracks it, smilingly, with a nutcracker. They find Cirilla does not enjoy certain fish such as mackerel, tuna and sardines, no matter the sprinkled addition of the magical salt. She equally abhors any type of red meat, but accepts poultry. Although not a sweet tooth, the girl loves the typical Cintrian rice custard, arroz doce, and enjoys soft cheeses for dessert. Stella is glad she advised the cook to research Cintrian food traditions. She’ll have the girl plump as a pudding in no time.

After a few weeks, the proof of the importance of a healthy diet becomes visible; although the girl retains her slender form, her face rounds, her cheeks are no longer hollow and dull, and her blonde hair gains body and strength. The bones of her clavicle still jut from the top of her chest, but they no longer threaten to cut through the skin. Her arms, previously resembling sticks, fill the sleeves of her dresses, and the outline of her bosom swells, although it is clear she’ll never be busty.

Stella observes the changes in the girl with satisfaction and slight astonishment as the ugly Princess of Cintra flowers into an unusual beauty. Stella’s only wish is to transform the gaze of the girl; although her eyes gain a healthier glow, they cannot be described as anything but large, and sad.

She orders Ivy to arrange the girl’s hair and have the brittle, dry ends to be cut. She keeps a lock of Cirilla’s hair, binds it with a satin string, and sends it by a courier to the capital, determined not to consider what the sorceress wishes to do with it. Fringilla promised her she would not harm the girl in any way, and the Countess of Liddertal trusts her.

Stella returns to the task of sculpting the shapes of a Princess. There is one fool-proof method that will shape the girl both internally and externally. The Countess sits by her desk and writes to the Emperor.

“How do you find your riding outfit? Is it to your taste?”

The girl nods and beams down on her garments; a jerkin in the finest dark blue samite, with round, ivory buttons, white cuffs, leggings of the same cloth, a pair of black boots that reach over her calves, and fine leather mittens. She pats the fine, diagonal ribs of the samite on her hips with a blush. Nilfgaardian tradition allows women to wear similar riding garments as men, whereas long skirts are still customary in Cintra. The pants expose the outlines of her thighs and posterior and leaves her with a feeling of her lower parts being exposed.

Cirilla’s smile dies at the sight of the horses leaving and entering the stables led by their caretakers. Her hands turn clammy. She’s never sat on a horse before.

“The Emperor has sent you a beautiful mare,” Stella assures her, “and apparently, calm and docile. She’ll be perfect for you.”

A young man exits the stables with a bay roan on a lead, saddled and ready. The horse has a red mane and is just tall enough not to be a pony.

“Your grace.” The stable boy nods at the girl and hands her the lead. She accepts with an utter sense of incompetence.

“Hello,” she whispers sheepishly to the horse. The roan snorts softly.

Stella instructs her over the course of an hour. Firstly, to know the horse through touch, through gentle pats on the neck and over the back; secondly, to create trust through taking the lead, and finally to establish a relation of dominance though mild force, like lifting the horse’s hooves and gently pushing her rear to the side.

When the horse submits to them - the mare is mild-tempered like a cow, Stella thinks - is it time for Cirilla to place her feet in the stirrups.

She does, and lands with a diffident, yet proud, expression on top of the roan. Stella takes the leash and begins to walk at a leisurely pace.

“Try to relax, Cirilla. Don’t squeeze the horse between your thighs, remember that the balance is in your feet, toes on the stirrups, heels down, long, heavy legs, that’s it… Follow her pace. Relax your buttocks, dear, you sit on top of the saddle as if it were pointy - oh don’t look so scandalized, you cannot ride a horse without mentioning your petite derrière... “

The girl sits, rocked by the gentle pace of the horse. She squints in the sun that peeks through the scattered clouds, illuminating the world. The warm rays make her relax and loosens her grip on the reins.

“What will you call her?”

The girl turns to Lady Stella with a smile. She’s known the name of her first horse since she was little.

“Nildrohain.”

Stella makes a wry face and nods.

“Unusual, but why not? Nildrohain it is.”

The girl relaxes into her saddle. Stella is just about to suggest they quicken the pace to a trot, when a cat rushes past and startles the horse. Nildrohain jerks her head up with a whicker and dances in a wide circle. Wide-eyed, the girl squeals and leans forward to wrap her arms around the horse’s neck. Her heart transformed to a drum and her muscles to jelly, she slides off the saddle and lands with a muffled thud on the ground, her leggings and mittens specked by dust.

Having assured the girl has not broken any bones, Stella bits her cheek not to laugh and hands the lead over to the stable boy before helping the mortified, beet-red Cirilla Fiona up on her feet.

“Oh, Lady Stella! I…”

“You fell of your horse because it got startled. It happens to everyone. Dear girl, before you learn how to ride, you will fall a hundred times more. It is part of the learning process. Come, wipe the dust from your dons, don’t be sorry. Is that tears I see in your eyes? You did good, girl, better than I did the first time I sat on a horse…”

The girl’s breath shudders.

“I’m sorry, Lady Stella. It’s just - I’ve dreamed of this, to have a horse of my own, to love and take care of. I was such a child… I could never learn how to ride, I don’t have the courage.”

Stella gives her a calm look, a small crevice between her eyebrows.

“Myshkyn, the famous Vicovarian artist, once wrote that talent is a pursued interest. It takes time, girl. When I was young, I had a horse, white like a pearl, beautiful and proud, and a real tease. Culverin was his name. He enjoyed throwing me off, he yanked the lead ‘til my arms hurt… How we fought! And how I loved him. Like a beautiful young man, he knew he could get away with murder because people admired him.”

“Lady Stella, I’m afraid you are doing very little to ease my fright of horses…”

“Oh, child, all you need to know is that just like people; horses are different - in looks, charms and talents. You don’t care for all people you meet, no? Well, it’s the same with horses. Yours is kind, this I promise; others are not. Some work hard, some are lazy. Some are cunning, most are rather unintelligent. All are sensitive beings, easily moulded by how they are treated…”

Cirilla nods. Her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks as she drops her large, sad eyes on the ground.

A weight presses on Stella’s chest. She exhales through her nose.

“Listen: my father had a horse; a great, red stallion. He was majestic. All admired him! But what no one knew was that he was an utter coward. He was so nervous he got a fright from the simplest of sounds! Even his own flatulence made him run in a break-neck gallop…”

“Flatulence, Lady Stella?”

“Wind, girl! Gas! The horse ran from the sound of its own farts.”

The girl puts a hand over her mouth and lets out a squeak. Soon, her shoulders shake from from a poorly withheld, bursting laughter.

Stella snorts.

“Now, Cirilla Fiona,” she smiles as her protégé holds her arms around her midriff and continues her loud titter, “guffaws are very unlady-like. The Emperor would chastise me if he heard you…” She chuckles and taps the girl’s arm with her whip.

Another squeal. They both give in to their laughter until tears leak from their eyes.

Once they calm down, Stella motions towards Nildrohain who nips at a patch of grass, held by the reins by the stable boy.

“Come, let us begin anew. To your horse. You will be good friends in no time.”

She whose life depends on her ability to shoulder the mantle of Cirilla Fiona, the Lion Cub of Cintra, sits by the breakfast table enjoying a cup of peppermint tea with a teaspoon of brown sugar, when the Countess of Liddertal hurries in, a letter in her hand. The air catches in the girl’s lungs at the sight of the imperial insignia.

”The Emperor has commissioned your portrait, Cirilla. In a week’s time, the famous painter Robin Anderida will arrive at Darn Rowan.” Lady Stella’s eyes glitter.

”We’ll need to send for the tailor, to prepare the perfect dress for you. White, with a short cape and green sleeves…”

Cirilla Fiona is flooded by so many emotions at once she struggles to detangle them.

 _My portrait? Does that mean…?_ No. A portrait is a tool, a mark of the role she might play in his game of rule, she tells herself.

”Cirilla,” Lady Stella calls her attention, ”the Emperor will arrive a few weeks later to inspect his work. He is coming to Darn Rowan.”

The girl remembers etiquette and nods, hands folded in her lap and her heart sinking to the floor.

Stella is awoken by a scream, followed by a quivering, drawn-out “no”. Her mind leaps from the murky waters of sleep with a jolt. She pulls the thick duvet from her body, lights a candle and grabs the pricket. She opens the door to Cirilla’s room adjacent to her own. The girl sits in her bed, sobbing. The fire in the hearth is extinguished, not an ember left. Even in the cold air of the room, the girl’s forehead glistens with sweat in the light of the candle.

“Lady Stella, forgive me…”

“It’s alright, girl,” Stella soothes her, heart clenching at the brittle note of the girls’ voice. “Was it a nightmare?” Stella deposits the candlestick on the bedside table and sits on the edge of the bed. 

Cirilla Fiona inhales through her nose. She opens her mouth, but instead of speaking, she lifts her hand to wrap around her throat.

On an impulse, Stella reaches for the girl who buries her face into Stella’s bed jacket.

”I’m going to die, am I not, Lady Stella?” Her voice drowns in tears. ”I’m going to die.”

The Countess of Liddertal freezes. There will be no pretending between them anymore.

”Absolutely not. He’ll let you live, away from the imperial court, from everyone and everything. He’ll not have you killed. I know it.”

”How do you know, Lady Stella?”

”Because the Emperor is many things, cruel to some, determined, ambitious to others - but he is not a monster.”

Stella tightens her grip around the shoulders of the girl in a bid to comfort her.

The girl lifts her large, teary eyes to her.

”Thank you Lady Stella, for everything. Thank you.”

It sounds like a goodbye. Stella Congreve’s heart shatters in a million pieces.

“Try to go back to sleep, dear child. Do you wish for me to stay with you?”

The girl blinks, mouth open.

“You would do that, Lady Stella?”

“Certainly. I’ll sit right here until you fall asleep again. Tomorrow we will meet master Anderida.”

The girl wipes her face and leans against her pillows. Stella rekindles the fire in the hearth, extinguishes the light of the candle, and sits on an armchair next to the bed.

When the girl wakes up the next morning, the room is pleasantly warm. Stella is still on the chair, sleeping in an uncomfortable position. A light dribble from her mouth forms a wet patch on her bed jacket.

Cirilla Fiona’s heart trips over itself at the sight.

_1268, Darn Rowan_

The muscles in the girl’s shoulders are stiff from posing. She tries to think of things that relax her, such as long rides on Nildrohain, or a hot bath, but her mind is occupied by the man who arrived at Darn Rowan late yesterday evening with his imperial guard. She hasn’t yet had a chance to meet the Emperor, but at any moment, he will appear at the top floor of the castle, where she is seated for the portrait, accompanied by Lady Stella.

In the last four weeks, she has spent countless hours each day in front of the painter; a slight man with a pointed moustache and nervous demeanour. Stella informed Cirilla of Robin Anderida’s pathological shyness and agoraphobia, but she doesn’t mind these traits in the silent, watchful man. His brown eyes lit with a spark the first time they meet, and although he seldom meets her gaze, he is kind. When he works in front of his canvas, he is nothing but concentration and ardour.

This day, her portrait is nearly done. 

It frightens and awes her in equal measure.

He’s portrayed her with the landscape outside, the snow peaked mountains and the silver band of the river Alba behind. His brushes have caught the sheen of her white, silken dress with green sleeves, the gleam of her golden necklace with emeralds, and the body of her hair, fastened at the back of her neck with a green band. But the most striking feature of the portrait are her eyes - Anderida has managed to draw the attention to them; they pull the observer in.

Master Anderida has captured how uncomfortable she is, in the chair, in her skin, leaving her with a feeling of being exposed although she is fully clothed.

She doesn’t wish to look at the painting for long. It portrays her, but also someone else, someone with the right to all that has been given her. The painting might never be presented to anyone. It might be what stands between life and death for the girl.

An unusual spark of anger lit in her chest. Why commission it? why give her hope? Is she - the actual human being, not the role she might play in a game of politics - of such little worth? Why treat her with such cruelty?

You are no one, she reminds herself. In times of war, people are nothing but pieces on chess boards of rulers. He is the most powerful man in the world; the means can justify whatever end he deems to be desirable. You are nothing but an unfortunate attempt at hiding someone’s mistake. 

_No. Lady Stella promised me. The Emperor is not a monster._

Lost in thought, the girl fails to notice the Emperor approaching. Master Anderida stands and bows, a twitch dances below his eye as he fiddles with his brush.

The girl wakes from her reverie. Her mouth runs dry.

The Emperor wears his hair back as he did at Loc Grim. He dons a black light armor with black leather trews that reveal the muscles of his calves. A chainmail hauberk falls from his shoulders down to his knees, fastened at his hips by a leather strap. His black cloak billows behind him as he steps closer, a silver embroidery of a salamander gleam on its surface. The heavy, gold imperial chain crosses his chest. His gaze is steadfast, and calm.

Stella, who’s been observing the work of the artist, stands up and curtsies. She motions to Cirilla to do the same, and the girl obeys.

“My greetings, ladies.” The Emperor nods at them. “And my greetings to you, Master Robin. How is your work?”

The painter is unable to use words, but merely grunts. He manages to bow again, before he wipes his fingers with his apron, trembling.

Cirilla feels for the man, but a part of her is grateful his fretful behaviour draws the attention away from the fact that, she too, is trembling.

The Emperor examines the portrait, before he turns to her. She keeps her gaze on the floor, memorizing the flowery pattern of the carpet underneath her, her hands in front of her, fingers interlocked.

“Excellent.”

She peeks at him. His utters his remark gazing at the scenery outside, but his dark eyes return to her. For a brief second, their eyes meet.

In the correct manner, she quickly lowers her gaze again.

“Excellent, master. Please continue, do not pay any attention to me. If you will allow me a moment, Countess.”

Cirilla remembers to breathe as the Emperor and Lady Stella amble to the window, where they converse in a tone only meant for their ears.

Amidst a quiet storm that whirls inside her, the girl is faintly aware of the sound of brushes being arranged - a sign the portrait session is over. She does not dare to observe her caretaker and the Emperor; it would be a serious breach of etiquette, also, any sign of consternation in Stella’s demeanour would have her knees weaken in fear.

The Emperor turn to her and waves his hand to beckon her closer.

“Come, Princess. Faster. Closer. The Emperor commands.”

She curtsies before approaching him. He measures her from top to toe in open admiration, facial features soft. A flare of pride bursts in her chest. _It is all Lady Stella’s work, Imperial Majesty. She is the true artist._

The Emperor demands that master Anderida and Stella leave them, and orders her to follow him to the terrace. She swallows. Stella casts her a reassuring glance as she passes to move to the anteroom.

The terrace offers a view of mountains and of the bailey below. The rays of the morning sun reflect against the rooftops of the fortress, glistening like gold. The cold air, filled with the fresh scents of snow and pine needles, makes her shiver, goosebumps erupting on her skin. It is that time of the year when the snow rots to a melting mass in the Alba and rushes down its currents in creaking, flushing sounds, and when the anemones push their stems through the exposed soil to paint the world in a different kind of white than snow.

Even if etiquette didn’t dictate her to keep a step behind the Emperor, she wouldn’t have the courage to stand closer than two few feet apart from him. He beckons her nearer with an impatient gesture. In silence, she takes another step and reaches the balustrade. Her glance crawls up to his shoulders, framed by the elegant cloth of his mantle, only to drop to his hands on the railing - strong and large enough to dwarf hers.

“I seldom come here.”

His sculpted jaw is taut as he observes the landscape around them. As etiquette dictates, she waits for him to go on.

“I seldom come here,“ he ventures, “it is a beautiful and peaceful place. Beautiful surroundings… Do you agree?”

Surprised by his words, she politely concurs. Does he wish he could come Darn Rowan more often; that his imperial duties would allow him more occasions of worldly beauty and contemplation?

Below, noisy clangs of armoured men moving around reaches them, together with the clatter of iron horseshoes against the stone - the sounds of his imminent departure. One of his escorts sing, in the drawn-out syllables of the Nilfgaardian dialect which the girl associates with Lady Stella, and therefore has come to love.

She blushes at the lyrics, describing a passionate lovers meeting.

“A beautiful ballad,” the Emperor remarks. He grazes his fingers over the golden imperial chain on his chest.

“Beautiful, Imperial Majesty.” She manages to hold her voice steady.

Again, he grows silent and pensive, his eyes lost somewhere else, somewhere she cannot dream to follow.

Perhaps he has found her, she thinks, the real Princess. He ponders what to do with me – the shade. Heart heavy, she sinks her gaze to the terrace floor.

“Lift up your head.”

His voice is stern, eyes unrelenting. The sleeve of his arm brushes against hers as she turns to face him. He asks if she has any wishes, demands, or complaints. She does not hesitate. She is a person worthy of nothing, who has lost everything, but has been given so much. Safety. Warmth. Meals. Kindness. A life on hiatus perhaps, but surely, it was worth it, after what she witnessed at the camp?

“No, Imperial Majesty, I do not.”

“Really? That’s interesting. No, but then I cannot command that you had. Raise your head, as befits a Princess. Stella taught you courtly manners?”

“Yes, Imperial Majesty.”

He commands that she tells him her name. She obeys by reciting the names she has repeated a thousand times over to save her life, but he demands her real name.

She grows hot despite the cool air. There it is; the confirmation he has known all along that she is not Cirilla. Despite her conviction that he realized it during the audience in Loc Grim, she burns with shame. Oh, how she would have liked to be Cirilla. She would have liked to live again, to be treated with kindness and care, even if it requires that she robs another of her identity. A part of the girl had wished he wouldn’t take whatever pride she had left by exposing her so blatantly. Of course, she is a fool for harboring such thought; Emperors take what they want.

A pressure weighing on her chest like a stone, the girl repeats,

“Cirilla, Fiona…”

“Do not try my patience. Name!”

_If you so much as breathe a word of not being Cirilla, Princess of Cintra, I will hunt you down myself. My face will be the last thing you see in your regrettable life._

“Cirilla…” Her voice breaks. “Fiona…”

“Enough, by the Great Sun,” he orders, although in a low voice, “enough!”

She takes a shuddering breath, cheeks ablaze. Why does he ask her name? Does he not understand that the men he sent to find the real Cirilla threatened her, the fake, to never reveal her true identity?

“Calm down.” It’s still an order, but his voice is softer now. It helps tamper the swell of panic in her chest.

“What do you fear? Are you ashamed of your own name? Are you afraid to tell me? Does it raise unpleasant memories? I only ask because I would like to address you by your real name. But I must know what it is.”

Although the Emperor still plays his game of rule, the earnest tone in his voice grounds her; makes her feel more like a person in her own right and less like a pawn on a chessboard. The sentiment encourages her to speak up. Yes, Schirrú threatened her life, but she does not wish to claim the name of Cirilla Fiona because of what she might lose, but because of everything she has to gain.

“It’s nothing.” She lifts her eyes to him, for the first time openly meeting his gaze. “Because it is a bland name, Imperial Majesty. A person who wears it is a nobody. As long as I’m Cirilla Fiona, I mean something… As long as…”

Her voice shrivels in her throat. She raises her hands to her neck.

The Emperor’s gaze is not kind, nor is it cruel. He measures her in sullen appreciation.

“Know that I had nothing to do with your kidnapping, girl,” he hisses, ”I gave no such orders. I was fooled…”

_And I am the symbol of your humiliation._

She inhales another trembling breath and lifts her bleary gaze to their surroundings. To think that a world so alluring also carries so much cruelty. Perhaps the most merciless aspects of war are the questions unanswered. Why? How can one move on? Who can give the victims their humanity back?

“Forgive me.” His words are strangled. He grabs her by the arm and turns her to face him. “I made a mistake. Yes, it’s true, I am guilty of what happened to you. Guilty. But I give you my word that you will come to no danger, no injustice, no harm, no threat. Do not be afraid.”

The girl’s surprise is so great her tears stop at once. The world falls away to be reduced to his words, his powerful presence. He is the first to take responsibility for what happened to her. In a world where the means justify the end - an end that is decided by rulers for whom faceless men, women and children are nothing but necessary sacrifice, or collateral damage - he steps forward, ready to shoulder the wrong he never meant to commit, but committed nonetheless.

She is a pawn dropped onto his board by traitors, wearing a name that is not hers; he is the ruler of the southern world. Yet on this terrace, on the crisp spring morning, he asks for her forgiveness - her, a nobody - and offers mercy.

His gaze is locked in hers, and she has a strange sensation of simultaneously falling apart and becoming whole. These are not the eyes of an evil man. Relentless, ambitious, proud, but not evil. Lady Stella was right, she thinks. He is hard, but not hardened. He shows pity but is never pitiable. He will not hurt me.

He has promised.

The girl forgives him, immediately.

“I’m not afraid.”

He flinches from the steadfastness of her voice but straightens to regain posture.

“Ask of me what you want.”

There is a pause and something akin to vulnerability flashes in his eyes.

“I will fulfil your every wish.”

She keeps her gaze in his and relishes for a moment in how it makes him visibly uneasy.

She does not doubt he could fulfil her every wish. He is the most powerful man in the world, and he stands here, asking for her desires, to make amends for the debt he owes her. But even he would be powerless in face of the need that rises from her core, molded by fear, by neglect, by starvation for food and affection alike.

What could she, a girl without a name, without anything to ascertain importance, ask of life? How could she desire more than has already been given? How to justify such greed? Yet the shadow of a want is there; a shapeless, fleeting spark at the peripheral of her mind, ridiculous in its boldness, impossible to fulfill.. 

The moment is gone; she hesitates for too long, and the world appears anew.

She remembers a soldier that did not harm her but gave her food and drink, a young dwarf warming her hands in his. Lady Stella, so patiently and warmly teaching her to be a Princess… She craves absence of violence, fear and cold; to wish for anything more would be absurd. To be alive although deprived of a life is an easy burden to carry… is it not?

“I thank you, Imperial Majesty. His Imperial Majesty is very noble and generous. If I could ask for anything…”

“Speak.”

“I want to stay here. Here at Darn Rowan. With Lady Stella.”

“I gave my word.” The cold in his voice freezes her heart. ”My will be done.”

“I thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I gave my word, and I will honour it. However, I think you chose wrong. You did not choose that which you desire. If you change your mind…”

Her heart makes a little jump. Was it her imagination, or did he let his gaze lower to her lips? Blushing, she replies.

“I will not change. Why would I change my mind?” She gazes over the mountain pass, on the black of the stone and white of the lingering snow. ”I have chosen Lady Stella. I have chosen things that I have experienced in my life so little… a house, warmth, kindness… Love. You cannot make a mistake when choosing something like that.”

He frowns, eyes full of pity, but says nothing.

When the Emperor leaves with his imperial guard, she rests in her chambers, clutching a pillow. She was promised what she wanted, was she not? To come to no harm. To stay with Lady Stella. She should feel elated, relieved. Instead, she places her forehead against her arms, and weeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The use of the word “sierra” in this fic is intentional. I imagine Nilfgaard as our equivalent to Spain/northern Africa. 
> 
> I’ve modeled Darn Rowan loosely after Skyhold in Dragon Age: Inquisition. 
> 
> Go I Know Not Wither And Fetch I Know Not What is a Russian fairy tale, remodeled in this fic to fit the witcher world. 
> 
> The tune false Cirilla plays for Cornelia, and at the first day in Darn Rowan is The Heart Asks Pleasure First, by Michael Nyman, from the movie The Piano. I was inspired its abrupt end.
> 
> Arroz doce is a typical Portuguese dessert.
> 
> Nildrohain is the name of a character in the novel Watership Down by Richard Adams. 
> 
> “Talent is a pursued interest” is a quote by the painter Bob Ross. 
> 
> [Fanart of the portrait of false Cirilla ](http://prophetqueen.tumblr.com/post/160593024492/the-portrait-was-finally-put-in-place-the)that inspired this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”_

_That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something,_ _and I asked Miss Maudie about it._

_“Your father’s right,” she said. “Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy . . ._

_but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”_

_Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird_

Nothing is certain. The girl is trapped between her previous life and the life that might begin, but the limbo of her existence takes another form - she remembers what it was like to feel alive.

She takes long rides on her horse to drink in the swelling signs of spring: the purl and gurgle of the nearby brook, the winds that pucker the surface of the Alba, budding leaves on the trees, the tweets of a lonely blackbird. She indulges in the spicy smell of Nildrohain’s pelt, of the polished leather of her boots and the heavy scent of hay. She delights in sensuous touch; diasper silk against her fingertips, the silver fuzz of the willow’s leaf, smooth rocks in the river bed.

The girl’s favourite part of the day is her morning routine of washing up with a lily-scented soap, and to have her coiffure fastened by Ivy’s soft, deft hands. She enjoys the sensation of a powder brush against her cheeks and the taste of strawberry marmalade on toast and strong coffee for breakfast.

She often returns to that morning when the world’s most powerful ruler appeared to her like a man, maskless and open.

_What would it be like to know him? The man behind the Emperor?_

She should resent him, hate him even, but is unable to harbour such feelings. She recollects his scent of leather and metal, and the firm grasp of his hand, like a ghostly memory on her skin. She wouldn’t mind meeting him again, alone, as they did on the terrace.

The thought causes a surprising warmth to bloom in her chest.

On one of their many rides together, the girl opens her mouth, hesitates, before blurting a question to Stella without taking her gaze off their surroundings.

“Lady Stella, do you think love is a pursued talent?”

The Countess adjusts the reins of her horse and weighs her words. The girl might speak of their friendship; an eruption of affection flows through her at the thought. But as her protégé fidgets in her saddle in a poor attempt at feigning indifference, a previous faint suspicion takes definite shape in Stella’s mind - could Cirilla be speaking of the Emperor? In her world, love has little to do with marriage, especially when unions made to secure power are involved.

“It certainly was with me and my late husband, may the Great Sun bless him,” Stella answers, “but if you are speaking of infatuation, then it’s another matter. Infatuation can never be learned; it pulls you like a powerful undercurrent and makes you lose your footing. It may even cause you to lose yourself.”

She hesitates, unsure whether her words are encouraging something that will lead to heartbreak and pain. Her mind wanders back to the expression of admiration on Emperor’s face that day he brought the girl out on the terrace.

“All I know, dear Cirilla, is that the course of true love never runs smooth.”

The girl doesn’t answer. A healthy, rosy hue colour her cheeks.

The girl walks the ground outside the fortress, warmed by a curious, white light. A horse waits for her by the eastern wing - not Nildrohain, but a black stallion she has never seen before but still recognizes. Unafraid, she approaches the horse, who snorts a friendly puff of air and nibbles at her outstretched hand with lips soft like velvet. She caresses his forehead; her hand moves in a sweeping motion over the fur of his neck, his withers, and onto his arched back. The warm scent of his hide lingers on her palms.

The girl catches the horses’ gaze. He raises his head, neck stiff.

Breathlessly, she grabs his mane and heaves onto his back, adjusting her weight to find balance on top of him. The horse takes a tentative step; she gently clenches her legs against his ribs in encouragement. His initial gait is slow, but soon he speeds up to a trot; she adjusts to his tempo and rocks her body to match his moves. The perfect harmony of their bodies awaken unfamiliar sensations in her; she is overcome by a euphoric rush that builds as the horse speeds up to a gallop, his powerful muscles moving under the glistening, dark fur.

They fly together over the meadows, past a glen of chestnut trees, towards the mountains. She grasps his mane and leans forwards, eyes tearing and mouth open in ecstasy, rides and rides until all dissolves in a burst of light...

She wakes up with a gasp, her breath short, her body hot as if ravaged by fever and a strange pulse thrumming between her legs.

In the sitting room of Darn Rowan, Ivy serves Lady Stella a cup of tea after a light supper of creamed artichoke soup and freshly baked walnut bread. Spring is at their door, but here in the mountains, the nights are still cold enough to warrant a fire to be lit in the hearth. The tangerine flames lick a set of birch tree branches and send billowing shadows on the mahogany floor. Dusk is slowly creeping in and Ivy prepares to light the candles, but for another few minutes, the last rays of the sun illuminate the room in a warm hue.

Cirilla Fiona sits by the grand piano. She wears a cream-coloured dress with puffed sleeves and a bodice embroidered with silken thread. A gold necklace in the shape of the sun, with a shining aquamarine in its centre, caresses her modest décolletage.

Stella casts her a smile and a small nod. Cirilla plays her latest composition. The first notes promise something neither cheerful nor melancholy. Stella settles deep into her settee to enjoy the tune and the heartwarming sight of the girl being at ease.

The pace of the tune quickens like brisk drops of rain. Cirilla’s hands dance deftly on the keys. Stella lets out a puff of air through her nose - the girl is parading her skills. The Countess arches an eyebrow and the girl answers with a deliberately smug smile.

The tune regains its initial slow pace, and the previous mischievous smile on Cirilla’s face settles into a concentrated, tranquil expression. As the quicker tempo of the tune returns, she closes her eyes, lost in the melody.

A familiar, luscious frisson dances on Stella’s arms. Oh, if only the Emperor could witness the girl this harmonious and radiant; he would see reason and cease his pointless search of the real Cirilla.

The notes of the piano die abruptly as the castle steward walks into the room and bows.

“I regret to inform you,” he announces, “that Marshall Coehoorn’s troops have been defeated in the North. The war is over.”

_1268, Stygga castle_

The air is filled with the rustle of ironclad feet against the soil, clinks of chainmail and rattle of weapons. Hauberks, tabards and mantles embroidered with the silver salamander billow in the wind. Emhyr var Emreis marches towards the gates of Stygga castle in what should be a triumph. His armies in the North may be defeated, but the most important battle is won; his daughter is with him, flanked by his imperial guard. Her hands are bound, her shirt is drenched in blood, but she is alive. The tide can still be turned.

Vilgefortz of Roggeveen is dead; soon, the witcher and his sorceress will be too. Emhyr’s victory is served to him on a plate, although he regrets not killing the mage himself. But he does not dwell on it as he marches through the castle grounds, determined to leave this cursed place as soon as possible.

The future he has waited for so long is finally in his grasp. This is the moment he has worked towards for decades.

His mouth tastes like ash.

_You won. And you think you have won with dignity?_

Cirilla sniffles. He scarcely registers the sound but marches on towards his horse.

She lets out a tearful sob. And another.

_I have looked at death up close and have not become a beast._

Emhyr is overcome by a memory. In the royal library in Cintra, he, then Duny, reads the most recent correspondence from the mage. Soon, their plan will be set in motion.

A muffled bang and a pained yelp reach him from behind the doors. Frowning, Duny approaches the corridor where his daughter is laying with her hand in a tight grasp, her little face red and glistening with tears.

Did she clamp her fingers in the door? Had she been watching him? To his surprise, a warm wave of emotion tugs at his heart.

”Are you alright, Cirilla?”

Blinking down tears, she whines and raises her scrawny arms to him. Her eyes gleam with trust.

 _My little girl._ Driven by an instinct he rarely gives into, he opens his arms to accommodate his wordless plea -

Pavetta’s chambermaid comes running and snatches the girl from the ground. Duny freezes.

”What have I told you, Cirilla, do not disturb the Prince! Come here,” she commands.

The girl protests and calls for him. He does not move. The mutant will not have her. Cirilla is mine _; she's my blood. How could a simple monster hunter understand what is needed to ensure the salvation of this world?_

Emhyr snaps his focus back to the present; he exhales and clenches his fists as another of Cirilla’s sobs grate his ears.

His mind wanders to a girl in a white dress with green sleeves standing on the terrace of Darn Rowan castle; tears glistening in those large eyes of hers, eyes that conveyed such bravery, such honesty and trust he’d barely been able to meet her gaze. He, the leader of the southern world, had confessed his guilt to her. He is responsible for robbing her of a home, of family, of forcing her into a situation she never asked for…

Emhyr has not forgotten the reflection of himself in Pavetta’s eyes as the ocean stole her from his grasp. The tearful sounds from his daughter grow louder. The unease of his soldiers at her pitiful outburst is palpable. She sniffles and cries, in long, quivering wails. Her distress splinter his heart, turning it into a red, searing mess.

_I would ask you not to hurt my daughter. I do not want to die with the notion that she is crying._

He stops, and the whole world tilts to gain new contours.

”Release her!”

She raises her head and squares her shoulders as he approaches, mustering all the courage she has left. Her face is hot and wet from tears.

So proud, he thinks. Just like her grandmother.

What life will she have? What can the witcher and the sorceress offer her? He observes the ugly scar that transects her left cheek.

_If you have to save the world like this, this world would be better off disappearing. Believe me, Duny; it would be better for it to perish._

Emhyr var Emreis does not know what the fate of the world will be, he only knows he has no right to the fate of this girl. He lost it the day he reduced her to a simple tool for his ambitions to gain power. Only now does the extent of his failure dawn on him.

_Who the fuck am I?_

He would like to be able to meet his own eyes in the mirror.

Emhyr reaches out to touch his daughter’s hair, surprised by the lack of disgust in her expression. He caresses her scar and pulls her gently into his embrace. She doesn’t recoil, doesn’t protest, her body shakes with sobs.

“A strange thing, fate,” he whispers. “Va faill, me luned.”

_1268, The Royal Palace, the City of Golden Towers._

The rich and varied scent of flowers - poppies, daisies, lilies and hyacinths - envelop the palace grounds. Tweets from spring birds mix with the occasional soft clang of the Impera guards’ armour as they shift uncomfortably in the heat of the midday sun.

Stella holds Cirilla’s hand in hers as they enter the western parts of the garden. She gives her fingers a light squeeze. They are approaching the Emperor, who is speaking to the Viscount of Eddion.

The girl’s hands turn clammy. She has a strange sensation of standing on a wobbly floor.

The Viscount is the first to notice them and greets them with a diligent bow. Before he bids his goodbye, Vattier de Rideaux utters a few quick words meant for the Emperor’s ears only. Emhyr does not reply. He merely taps his glove on his hip.

“Honored ladies.” The Emperor bows. Cirilla and Lady Stella curtsy, their heads bowed in respect.

The girl glances at him; the muscles of his jaw tenses. He gestures at her.

“Stay here please, Stella,” he commands in a flat voice, “and you, girl, come with me for a walk.”

He offers her his arm. She must have revealed her surprise, for he adds; “Cheer up. It’s just a walk.”

A light shiver runs across Cirilla’s skin as she places her hand on his elbow. She admires the ornamented red cloth of his sleeve that contrasts against her cream-coloured dress. It’s the first time that the distinction of her light colours to his dark does not trouble her.

Together, they amble along an alley enclosed by stalks of wild wine, offering a pleasant respite from the sun. Specks of sunlight paint gleaming patterns on the marble walkway, a happy chaffinch tweets a greeting to the pair. Guards scramble out of their way as they pass.

They reach the glittering waters of a pond with an artificial island; a fountain stands on top of it, a piece crafted to impress, like all imperial art. The water burbles over its rim and into the pond in lacy waves, its sound relaxing, pleasing - but the marble sculpture of a large bird placed beside the fountain ruins the effect for the girl.

The Emperor breaks their silence.

“Do you know what this figure represents?”

A spark of resentment flash inside the girl at the sight of the statue. She knows of the legend. She read the book back in Cintra, after her mother ousted her and her brother from her house and sent them to live with their relatives.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She keeps her voice steady. “It represents a pelican, whose beak tears at its own breast to feed its children with blood. It is an allegory of noble sacrifice. And also…”

He pins her with his gaze.

“I’m listening carefully.”

“Also of great love.” She lowers her eyes, not intending for the bitterness that colour her words.

He holds her by the shoulders and turns her to face him.

“Do you think that a torn chest hurts less?”

Her stomach sinks.

“I don’t know… Imperial Majesty… I…”

Of course, her mother was hurting. Perhaps more than any of them; the girl can’t help but resent her nonetheless. None of her mother’s pain justified her failure.

The Emperor takes her hand, she twitches involuntarily from the sudden motion. His hands are warm, his grip firm.

Emhyr speaks of his father, whom he found to be a great ruler, but who never paid attention to myths and legends and therefore claimed the pelican rose from the ashes.

She hangs onto his words, trying to decipher their hidden meanings. Does he aspire to be a better ruler than his father? Did the Emperor witness the murder of his father? Did he love him? There is so much she does not know about this man.

“At least smile, girl, when the Emperor tells you stories from his childhood. That’s better, thank you. I would be sad to think that you are not enjoying your walk with me. Look into my eyes.”

The words pour out of her heart before she can stop them.

“I’m happy… to be here… Your Majesty. It is a huge honour for me... Also a large joy. I am very happy…”

He is still holding her hands. The warmth of his touch sends faint tingles up her arms.

“Really?” Emhyr’s expression turns unkind, inquisitive. “This is not just courtly flattery? Etiquette from Stella Congreve's classes? Admit it, girl.”

She refuses to be intimidated. Her outburst has surprised her as much as it has him, but the sentiment swells in her chest like a balloon.

“Really. I'm really happy, Imperial Majesty.” A part of her wishes to laugh, but she suppresses the impulse down, hard. Had anyone told her a few months prior, she would stand in front of this man in elation, she would have balked. Yet, here she is, her heart open and her stomach a whirlwind of butterflies.

He inspects her face, still hesitant.

_Are you never met with earnest care, Imperial Majesty? Do you have no one that is happy to be with you?_

“I believe you. I think. Although, I am surprised.”

She whispers now, to not expose the tremble in her voice.

“I also. I am also surprised.”

“What? Speak up, please.”

She musters the courage to speak. Say it, she thinks. It might be your last chance.

“I wish we could… walk more often. And talk.” Her heart sinks, she loses courage. “But I understand… I understand that this is impossible.” She releases one of his hands to fiddle with her necklace.

“You understand well.” He bites his lip. “Emperors rule the world, but two things they don't have control over. Their heart and their time. Both belong to the empire.”

“I know that - all too well.”

There is a moment of heavy silence when she reflects on her own words, and feelings. She wishes that he would look at her like he did back at Darn Rowan; like she was as beautiful as the portrait he ordered of her - like she mattered, not for the role she plays, but for who she is.

He utters the words that trample her heart like an iron boot.

“I will not be here long. I have to go to Cintra, to grace them with my presence at the peace celebration. You will have to go back to Darn Rowan…”

Bereft, she feels as if the ground sinks beneath her. Merely a few weeks before, on a terrace overlooking the mountains, she convinced herself she had no desires above that which had already been given her. Standing in the palace grounds before him, it is frighteningly clear that her sheltered and cosseted existence at Darn Rowan will never be sufficient because he will not be there. The girl thought she was clever enough to seek love only where she could find it; she was wrong.

Eyelids burning, she sinks her head, the image of her life before her daunting and empty. _How could I think I might be important to him?_

“Cheer up, girl,” he orders, “for a second time, lift your head in my presence. What is that I see in your eyes? Tears? This is a serious breach of etiquette, I will have to show Countess Liddertal my highest displeasure.” He gently touches her cheek with his hand. “Lift your head, I said…”

Her heart races.

“Please… forgive Lady Stella… Imperial Majesty, this is my fault. Only mine. Lady Stella has taught me… and prepared me well.”

It is true. Stella has prepared her for all possible gains and losses. Yet here the girl stands, tears welling in her eyes from the thought of never seeing this man again, unable to pull her heart from her sleeve.

“I’ve noticed,” he says softly, “and I appreciate it. Fear not, Stella does not run the risk of falling from grace. She never runs the risk. I was just joking with you. Poorly.”

She smiles from a wave of relief. _Poorly indeed._

“I noticed.” Her eyes widen, terrified by her own boldness.

He laughs a short bark. Her heart makes a small twitch at the sound.

“Well, I like you. Trust me. You are brave. Much like…”

His dark eyes deepen like wells and glaze over in thought. She holds her breath. Tell me, she thinks, tell me of your losses. His mind seems to return to the palace gardens, and he turns to her, face hard.

“Give me your hand.” It is an order. All playful demeanour in him is gone.

Her hand does not shake as she offers it to him.

The Countess of Liddertal peeks at the pair by the pond from behind a thick stem of wine. Her breath hitches when the Emperor grabs the girl’s arms, sternly, only to release her and stand back. He speaks to the girl she has come to love like her own daughter in a staccato of words, to which Cirilla only shakes her head so that loose strands of her hair bounce at her cheeks.

He tries to intimidate her. Stella smiles. The girl might lack self-esteem, but she has enough courage for an entire army. 

The Emperor falls silent at last. He takes a step forward and embraces the girl. He utters soft words and strokes her hair. She stiffens but slowly raises her arms to return the embrace.

A hot rush of triumph, of joy, of relief, courses through Stella’s veins.

_They will make each other happy - as happy as an imperial couple can be. I know them both enough to be certain. The war is over. Cintra will have their Queen, the Imperium its Empress. This is a day of joy._

Merely minutes later, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Princess of Cintra and the future Empress of Nilfgaard, sits with her caretaker in a secluded part of the palace grounds. Stella wipes a tear from her cheek. The girl laughs, but she too weeps; with joy, with relief - also with fear.

“What did he tell you, girl? I want to hear it all.” Stella squeezes her hands, as she did before their meeting with the Emperor.

“He asked me if I wished for luxury, Lady Stella. If I wanted a crown, or a position, or compliments.”

“What did you answer?”

“I merely shook my head.”

Stella’s chest blooms with pride.

“He tried to intimidate you. His accusations were unjust.” All the more unjust by Cirilla’s unspoken feelings, she thinks - the girl covets him, beyond his title. How many rulers are met with such honest desire?

“What happened after?”

Cirilla blushes.

“He asked me if I did not recognize the flame in front of me. He called me ‘little moth’.”

Stella could have laughed at that, but she didn’t.

“He also said that being an Empress is not easy. He said -”

“Yes?”

“He said he does not know if he’ll be able to love me.”

“Did you reply?”

“No, Lady Stella.”

“Good. Do not for a second believe he marries you to gain power over Cintra; the Cintrian throne was his all along. He marries you because it is the right thing to do. Because he is not a monster. Look at me, Cirilla.”

The girl lifts her large, sad eyes. Stella takes a deep breath.

“He does not know you as I do. When he does, he will love you. All things come to those who wait, dear child. There is not a person who could know you and not adore you.”

They fall into each other’s arms, laughing and crying. The imperial guards pass glances among one another and shift in their positions. The birds of spring sing their tribute to new beginnings.

Stella holds the girl in her outstretched arms. 

“That means there is only one more thing I may prepare you for in your role as Empress, Cirilla.”

The girl nods, her eyes beaming in trust.

Stella arches an eyebrow.

“Your wedding night.”

Cirilla Fiona turns as crimson as the gerbera daisies that bloom behind her.

Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon grips the sceptre in her left hand, ignoring the slight tremble in her arm, and how the edge of the imperial crown dig into her temples. She has reached the end of a road, and a new one is about to begin. Although her heart pounds steadily against her ribs, she is not afraid. A strange stillness overcomes her at this moment. In contrast to being powerlessly brought across the world by people she has no relation to, she takes this seat willingly and without a doubt.

He lays a hand on her shoulder. The feel of its weight grounds her body firmly onto the throne, grounds her heart.

All eyes are fastened on her face that conveys no emotion. Rose petals are released from the roof and dances in the bright air of the throne room.

From afar, a group of sorceresses observes the coronation, having known for long the girl proclaimed Empress of Nilfgaard is not Cirilla, Princess of Cintra. A lock of hair proved it. With her ascendancy to the throne, the issue of Cintra’s rule slips out of their hands.

In Rivia, two months later, an agitated peasant runs a pitchfork through a white-haired man carrying two swords; both intended for combatting monsters. An ashen-haired girl and a raven-haired sorceress were witnessed to be with him.

A tingle wanders up the girl’s arms as two imperial chambermaids carefully pat her naked skin with a soft cloth after her bath. One of them dots a perfumed oil behind her ears; the scent of lilies fills the room.

The wedding guests are still celebrating in the great hall and will do so for two more days, but she was brought to her room to be prepared for her first night with her husband. Not even a warm bath helped to calm her tensed nerves, stretched like piano strings.

The chambermaids place her in front of a mirror. Her lips part in an exhale.

The flimsy cloth of her shift, embroidered with golden thread and weaved in a fine filigree at the neck and hems, falls elegantly from her shoulders and her hips. Her hair glistens in the light of the candles, and when she lifts her hand to her discreet, yet not modest décolletage, the inlaid diamond of her wedding ring catches and reflects the light in the mirror.

_Is this me?_

_Is this real?_

_Is this someone he might…_

She admires her figure before meeting her own gaze. A blush creeps up her neck to settle on her cheeks.

“You look beautiful, your Imperial Majesty.”

The shorter one of the maids smiles at her, the other places a silver mantle over her shoulders before she brings the Empress her slippers, inlaid with pearls.

Cirilla steps into them and takes a deep breath.

The two chambermaids curtsy, cheeks burrowed in their white, ruffled collars, and leave. Their titter penetrates the walls.

A door on the eastern wall leads to a corridor that separates her room from his. Trembling, she extends her hand to the doorknob.

A sound from her window brings her to a halt. A small bird with black plumage, red chin and a snowy breast sits on her window sill, pecks its beak against the glass. When their eyes meet, it sings in a series of joyful tweets. Stupefied, Cirilla stands frozen on the spot, her lips parted. The bird tilts its head and flutters away.

She finds him pouring a glass of Etolian liqueur by a mahogany cellaret. His room is sombre compared to hers; an oxblood-coloured rug covers the floor, a large canopy bed in black plush with embroidered symbols of the sun occupies the eastern part. Her mouth runs dry at the sight of it, still, she declines when he asks if she wishes to have a glass. She regrets that decision immediately if only to have something to do with her hands.

The Emperor rests by a window, lost in thought.

He has changed from the black uniform he wore at the wedding, to the attire he commonly wears in court; the long, ribbed leather tunic over a shirt in a red, ornate pattern and black trews. A belt adorned with precious stones crosses his midriff and trails past his hips. The golden Imperial chain hangs, as always, heavy across his chest.

Although she caught the appreciative spark in his eyes as she stepped into his chambers, she is left wishing for him to further acknowledge her, to turn his gaze to her, rather than towards the castle grounds and the clouds that thicken over the rooftops outside his window.

Then again, how could his mind not be occupied at the moment? She is the only victor here; he lost the war, she won the Emperor of Nilfgaard. Could she also win the man behind the title?

Look at me, she thinks, shifting her gaze to the floor in a wave of emotion, look at me the way you sometimes do, as if you wished to know _me,_ beyond the role I’ve been given to play in order to preserve power. She would like to be part of someone’s fate. She has not forgotten how as a girl, her tutor read her hand and promised her a future. 

She raises her head and finds that he _is_ looking at her; the faltering sunlight lits up his dark eyes to make their colour resemble the golden liquor he holds in his hand.

“Vaesse deiraedh aep eigan. This day dies. Tomorrow, a new era begins.” He studies the outline of the city again. She waits for him to continue.

“How will it be, I wonder. I am no fortune teller, nor do I wish to employ one. But I know this: never again will I be pushed into war to secure my position. No more. There are other ways to prove myself as a ruler.”

He sighs and walks to sit in an armchair that would have swallowed a smaller man. He fastens his eyes on the rug on the floor and swirls the last dreg of liqueur in the snifter. His golden wedding band gleams next to the opal on his finger.

The Emperor of Nilfgaard looks like someone who has lost their purpose but is unsure if that loss of self is necessarily for the worse.

 _I will stand by you, while we find new definitions to who we are_.

She gathers the courage to speak.

“Whatever the future holds, I am glad for the opportunity to spend it together.”

He darts his gaze to hers and holds it, sternly.

“Is that why you are here, now?”

“Yes.”

”Child, you are so young.”

“I am no child. I recently turned eighteen years old.”

He blinks, once, the only sign of surprise on his face. The Cirilla she is impersonating would have been nearly sixteen. His face remains strict as he observes her, but she catches a glint of relief in his eyes. Yet, he makes no move to stand, to close the gap between them. She has never resented an empty air more.

She takes a step, and another, until she is close enough to smell the faint scent of the pomade he uses to style his hair. Wild courage raises in her, and with it, a determination to be close to him tonight.

The air around her positively trembles from the pounding of her heart, but she reaches out with her hand, surprised to find it is not shaking and places it on his cheek. He parts his lips in a sigh. She lifts her other hand; he catches it and brings her palm to his lips. The shock of the sensation causes her to gasp.

He looks into her eyes and ignites the air between them. A burst of heat flows through her entire being. He stands up and holds her hands, the warmth from his body envelops her.

“You know we don’t have to do this now.”

“I know,” she whispers and looks up to meet his eyes, “I know,” she repeats with more confidence.

"Tell me your name."

The hurt in his eyes prevents her from using the names that were forcibly given to her, that she later willingly adopted. That day by the fountain, he ordered her once more to reveal her name but she refused, maintaining the importance of being Cirilla Fiona. If she is not, the girl fears she will mean nothing to him… Yet he asks her again. Is this moment different? She hesitates.

“Imperial Majesty…”

“Do not use that title here!” His order is sharp, but she doesn’t flinch, merely presses her lips together.

“I would like it if you, in our private chambers, called me Emhyr. I would… it would be a privilege to hear you utter my name in affection.”

His eyes flash.

“I cannot bed you as Cirilla Fiona.”

A heartbeat passes.

“Please.”

She exhales. No more role-playing, for either of them.

”The girl I was - she died in Cintra. I have a middle name. I would like you to call me by that name.”

He takes her hand.

”Officially, you will still be Cirilla Fiona.”

”Yes. I shall think of it as my title. Like the Empress.”

His gaze is inquisitive, tentative.

She musters the courage to stand on her tiptoes and whisper her name into his ear, two simple syllables. Lowering back onto her feet, she keeps her hands on his shoulders, for the first time standing in front of him as who she is.

He gently touches her hair.

“Tell me; did you have a happy childhood? Were your parents... kind?”

She hesitates. Has she not given a vow to be his, fully and totally?

She tells him of her mother’s marriage to a merchant from Brugge, of how her father died at a young age, lost to the sea as his trading ship sunk on its way to Ofier.

Emhyr stiffens but nods in encouragement for her to go on.

She tells him of how after her father’s death, her mother was granted proprietorship of a house outside Cintra and a small, yearly allowance.

“It was enough to keep a meagre staff, and a tutor - well, tutors. They tended to leave or to be cast out.”

“Why?”

She inhales, face burning from shame, still, there is no turning back now.

“My mother often found reasons to dismiss them, especially the kind ones. She resented obvious displays of affection towards us - me and my brother” - _because of how others’ kindness reflected her crudeness, like a distorting mirror,_ she thinks.

“After my father’s death, my mother turned to the bottle. She often sent us to her relatives in the city during the more intense spells of… “

He places the knuckle of his index finger under her chin and tilts her head up. His eyes burn like liquid amber.

“You will never be without a home again.”

A tear runs down her cheek. He catches it with his hand. A rush of emotion turns her voice to a whisper as she utters his name.

He embraces her. She closes her eyes, registering his whisper, _my girl._ He grabs her shoulders, face stern.

“Is this truly what you want?” 

The low timbre of his words sends a luscious shiver through her.

“Yes.”

He caresses her cheek, his eyes studying her face, searching for something - there’s a glimpse of emotion she doesn’t dare to name as his eyes linger on her lips. 

Her heart hammers in her chest. _He’s going to kiss me_.

But he doesn’t - instead, he carefully begins to undo her coiffure to let her hair flow down her back. His face is soft, pupils large. He grazes the column of her neck and pushes the mantle off her shoulders; her skin to break out in goosebumps. The act fills her with the sensation of greater intimacy than a kiss - she is acutely aware her shift is rather thin.

His gaze drops to her mouth again, determined, before he pulls her against him.

His mouth against hers, her blood chants a euphoric cadence in her veins. The kiss is exploring at first, but soon turns demanding. He encourages her to open her lips and taste him, like his liqueur, hot and sweet, before he slowly pulls at the straps of her shift, exposing her, until it pools around her slippers.

Standing before him naked leaves her with the same sensation of staggering bravery as when she mounted her horse for the first time. She shivers at the feeling of his mouth on her neck, her shoulder, and exhale in a sigh as his lips trace a line past her clavicle. Eyes closed, she weaves her hands in his hair.

He returns to her mouth and scoops her up to carry her towards the bed. A light rain falls outside and taps a melodious rhythm against the window panes. The flames of the candles dance as they pass.

His gaze is relentless.

“Are you sure?”

She nods and seeks his lips with hers again. She couldn’t have stopped what is happening between them even if she wished to.

The bedspread is soft against her back, the air cool against her body. His imperial chain lands on her heated skin and she gasps. Impatiently, he tugs it over his head and flings it to the floor, where it lands in a muffled clang. Her hands move over his muscles underneath the layers of clothes. Never has she resented cloth more. She wishes to ask him to get undressed, so they can be more equal, but he is kissing her in places she has never been kissed before, and she is unable to form coherent words.

He pulls back to discard his garments, leaving her deprived of his warmth. The mattress dents from his knees as he climbs on top of her. She welcomes the added weight.

“This may hurt.”

“I’ve been told as much.”

“You are brave, little moth.”

Hurt is a word that encompasses much, and yet it is insufficient. It never captured the pain of running from death, of starving, of iron gauntlets digging into her flesh. It doesn’t capture the aching want as he breaches her. He is not gentle, neither is he rough; he gives her a moment to adjust. She relaxes her face, her arms, her abdomen, in that order.

As he encourages her to move with him, the initially uncomfortable sensation slowly abates to a warm and liquid feeling. It is not only the rhythm of their bodies that has her mind reeling, but his hand grasping hers on the mattress, his gaze anchoring her with a feeling of unmitigated connection, and of want. At this moment, she is not a reason of state, he is not the Emperor; they are simply two people who share a need to make up for their losses.

Without warning, he turns them to have her straddled on top of him. She flushes; it’s another challenge, one Stella has prepared her for. She moves, slow and shy at first, but his expression - and the dizzying sensations that flow through her - soon make her increase the tempo as she rides him, hands grasping his shoulders and eyes interlocked. He grips at her hips and exhales her name, followed by a strangled, enraptured curse. A current of heat lances through her - _this_ is power, to have him lost underneath her...

Later, as she lays cocooned in his arms, he asks if she is well. She nods, despite feeling a faint, warm ache in her lower abdomen. He leans over to catch her lips in a slow, luxurious kiss, and she questions whether she’ll be able to walk again now that her bones have transformed into quivering jelly.

Tucked against his chest, she listens to his breath turning deep and monotonous. In his sleep, his face is almost soft.

She has never lived by the belief that the stretched space of time that encompasses one’s life could be a wholly joyous event. But at that moment, she had no ulterior desires, nothing more to wish for. 

**Epilogue**

_1268 – 1290, Cintra, Nilfgaard_

Being Empress is not easy, he told her. During her first visit to Cintra as its Queen, the people greet her with open contempt. She appears on the terrace of Cintra castle with the Emperor by her side, and the naked hatred that radiates from the crowd hits her like a foul stench. Scattered boos bounce between the enraged onlookers.

All her joy of returning home vanishes in an instant. Chilling, nauseating waves flush through her. To them, she is nothing but a traitor who ran to Nilfgaard, straight to the Emperor’s bed.

_What did I expect?_

Her feet are rooted to the spot as her husband beckons her to go inside, to escape. During the official event, he keeps hovering beside her like a protective bulwark, but the cold politeness and sneering glances of the Cintrian nobility tell her they loathe her as much as the civilians.

That same night, she ignores the protest of one of the imperial guards outside the Emperor’s study and opens the doors, where he stands with Vattier de Rideaux and two other men in military garments.

“We have apprehended some of the worst troublemakers on the streets. They will be -” de Rideaux stops mid-sentence as she enters the room, his words and their implications hanging in the air.

She trembles but refuses to acknowledge the displeased gaze of her husband.

“Imperial Majesty.” She holds her chin high, interlocking her hands to prevent them from shaking.

“Your Royal Highness,” he replies to accentuate that they are on her lands, where she holds the title of the Queen. A moment passes where he observes her, a paper in hand and eyebrows knitted in a frown.

“Gentlemen. Dismissed.”

His visitors hasten from of the room, leaving the royal couple alone. She inhales a large gulp of air.

“Promise me the people of Cintra will come to no harm.”

The muscles of Emhyr’s jaw pulses.

“You do not understand.”

“I understand enough.” A blush creeps up her neck and settles on her cheeks, but her voice is steady.

He crumbles the paper in his hand.

“They will not malign you -” he pushes his words through gritted teeth.

“Husband.” Her eyes soften, by she refuses to let her posture sway. “Haven’t these people suffered enough?”

He flinches. His nostrils flare, but he does not speak.

Carefully, she crosses the distance between them and cups his face. He trembles with rage, and with something raw that has her heart melting. She lifts herself up to kiss him.

There are no executions of Cintrian civilians the day after.

Back in the city of golden towers, a throne is placed beside him at the imperial palace where she endures hours of the political games that exhaust and sometimes frighten her. She witnesses the contempt that radiates from various fractions among the nobility. For her protection, Emhyr occasionally sends her and Stella to Darn Rowan with a small army to guard them. In their fifth year of marriage, Vattier de Rideaux exposes the plans for an attempted coup, fuelled by anger towards the chosen bride of the Emperor. All culprits are executed, but swiftly as opposed to spectacularly, in accordance with her wish.

After the failed coup, she is filled with paranoid thoughts of him dying, and whenever he finds time to be with her, she spends the nights clinging to him. Emhyr never reproaches her. He has made a vow to be a better husband this time, and her need for him touches something deep in his heart. She convinces him to leave his imperial duties for one week per year; they travel to Darn Rowan where they take long rides together and share their chambers. He eventually tells her his story of the painful years in exile after the murder of his father - but leaves the Cintra part out.

Her chamber-maids gossip and share snippets of intimate scenes between the imperial couple among each other. The Empress is often heard to playfully tease her husband and to affectionately utter his name, to which he responds with soft snorts of laughter and lingering, warm gazes.

Throughout their marriage, Emhyr remains faithful to his wife and treats her with the utmost respect. In the years following the failed coup, he orders the construction of a concert hall in the capital and names it after her. He founds the Imperial Academy of Arts and donates considerable sums to improve the status of the Nilfgaardian University. He establishes a branch of the Humanities department in Cintra. Soon, Nilfgaard’s reputation as a cultural and intellectual centre of the world surpasses its image as war nation.

Twenty-two years after their wedding, Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard, the White Flame Dancing On The Burial Mounds Of His Enemies, dies. Throughout their years together, the Empress has three miscarriages, but nothing changes her belief that life passes with its pains and its joys - she never wishes for another life. She places a last kiss on his lips before the funeral, preparing for her return to Darn Rowan as ordered by Emperor Voorhis. This time, it might mean a death sentence; it matters not. She has no desire to flee.

Stella refuses to stay in the capital. The former Empress of Nilfgaard and the Countess of Liddertal embrace. During the entire trip to the south, they sit in the carriage, holding hands. When they reach the mountainous pass that separates Alba valley from the plains, Cirilla faces the silver ribbon of the Alba river with a steadfast gaze, overcome by the beauty of these lands once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m willfully ignoring one part of canon in this fic - the part where Condwiramurs states in Lady Of The Lake that Emhyr “acquired the original,” and “got rid of the forgery”. Although she “sensed no tragedy”, I still needed a happier ending - and wrote the happiest ending I could without being sentimental, I hope. As with Condwiramurs and her visions, my vision for this fic reflects my desires, longing, and fears.
> 
> The tune false Cirilla composes and performs for Stella; Comptine d’une autre ete, l’apres-midi by Yann Tiersen (from the movie Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain).
> 
> Another song that inspired this fic: A time of wonder, by Alexis Ffrench from the album The Piano Whisperer. 
> 
> My eternal gratitude to my beta [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean)! This fic would not exist without her support. I believe the best part of writing has been discussing the characters and scenes with her <3
> 
> Thank you to those who have read, commented, and given kudos to this fic! You warm my heart, each and every one of you.


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